Fathers and sons
by Marlowe97
Summary: "I found my dad," Tom Miller said. - It took Hardy a moment to sift through possible answers, because his first reaction – 'What the bloody hell have you been thinking even looking for him, you daft wallaper' – would probably not go over well. (set after s3, so spoilers!)
1. Chapter 1

It was mind-numbingly boring to sit in his office and do overdue paperwork, so when the call came that there was a suspicious person hiding in the shadows of old Mrs Sondersen's backyard, Hardy jumped at it to everyone's surprise.

"It's on my way home", he grumbled, annoyed that their stunned reaction let him feel an explanation was necessary. It wasn't. He didn't care what they thought, after all. With another grunt, he shut down his computer and grabbed his coat. Originally, he'd wanted to go out, check the suspicious person which would probably turn out to be a cat or something, and then come back and do more boring paperwork. Now, with his stupid forced explanation, he had to actually head home instead. Hmpf.

Daisy was with her mom since Friday after school, and even worse than being in his office was sitting at his home alone. He hated being alone but rarely tolerated company. It made life a bit of a hassle, he knew that quite well.

Barely seven, it was early for him to leave work without a reason, and while sunset had been hours ago already, the air was fresh and not too cold. Quite balmy, actually, considering it was November. Then again, this was Dorset and not Scotland, where he would have been drenched in rain after stepping a foot out of the door or frozen to an icicle by the frigid wind. Or both at once.

God, he missed Scotland something fierce, some days.

With a deep breath, he decided to walk to Mrs Sondersen. He could collect his car tomorrow, and she really did live right on his way home. Hardy grabbed the torch from the car and was on his way, with the slight wind from the sea getting through his trousers. But his chest stayed pleasantly warm. He would probably have to tell Daisy that the jacket she'd bought – well, ordered, he'd had to pay for it himself – had been a good idea. It was snuggly and comfy and dry, and it wasn't bright-orange or yellow or some other sensible but arse-ugly colour but a friendly, greenish-brown.

It also had amazing pockets. Maybe one of two too many, as he kept losing sight of where he'd put his keys, but they were roomy and it didn't look silly when he put his hands into them for warmth, like he was doing now.

It wasn't that Hardy didn't have a sense of fashion, like Tess had often accused him. He just didn't like flashy or otherwise remarkable. Or memorable.

Mrs Sondersen's house was set back from the street and surrounded by a neck-high yew-hedge. His neck, so Mrs Sondersen couldn't look over it if she wasn't up in her bedroom. From the road, he didn't see anything suspicious, but since Broadchurch had had enough cases of violence already under his tenure, Hardy decided to be thorough and give it a quick look around.

And indeed, on the backside of her house, off from any path, was a figure huddled into a small alcove that a sloppy gardener had cut into the hedge. The person – male, it seemed – startled at his approach and yanked his hand up to cover his eyes against the sudden beam of light. "Ey!", he shouted, "watch it, mate, where you shine that thing."

Hardy frowned. He knew that voice… "Tom?"

"Detective Hardy?" Tom Miller blinked into the torchlight and Hardy dropped the beam from his face to the ground. "What're you doing here?" He sounded nervous but not panicky or scared. Good. Whatever the kid was doing here, it didn't seem to be illegal. More like embarrassing.

"Could ask you the same. Will ask you the same – you scared Mrs Sondersen, sitting here. Watching porn, are you?" He had neither claimed nor ever aspired to be tactful.

But Tom didn't look embarrassed or guilty. "No, I'm not!", he scowled and there was so much contempt in his eyes that Hardy was inclined to believe him.

"Oh? Then what are you doing out here in the dark?"

"None of your business," Tom muttered angrily and the added "Sir" didn't really help against the insolence.

Despite the rudeness, Hardy was amused. "Well. Whatever it is you're doing, you better do it somewhere else, cause Mrs Sondersen thought there was someone waiting in the bushes to rob her. C'm on, go home or … don't know, just don't stay here. I'll let Mrs Sondersen know everything's fine. Go on, get."

He shooed Tom off and then went to speak with the old owner of the house. It took some time to assure her, and when he was finally done, Hardy felt even grouchier than before. He'd barely escaped getting invited for tea!

To his surprise, Tom had waited for him at the street-corner, trying to look very much like that hadn't been what he'd been doing and it was pure coincidence that he ran into Hardy again. Slouching, hands in his pockets, Tom fell into step with him without saying a word. That was fine. Non-verbal was definitely his favourite form of conversation.

Sadly, but not unexpectedly, it didn't last.

"Can I ask you something, sir?" Oh, the manners were back. Interesting. Hardy nodded. "'S just… I mean, I…" Tom fell silent once more, but it felt stifling and wrong and despite his promise to himself that he'd never get involved in his partner's home-life, Hardy felt the need to urge the boy on.

He stopped and turned towards the sky, looking at the stars. "Can't see that many in Glasgow," he muttered, giving Tom all the opportunities: He could leave and never say a word to him again – preferable, but not bloody likely – or stay and stare at the stars or take the chance to spill what had been on his mind.

Despite being equipped with rather poor social-skills, Hardy knew how to read people and where to push and when to back off. He wouldn't be as good a copper as he was if he were completely rubbish at _all_ things interpersonal. So it wasn't surprising when Tom took option number three. What did surprise him was what he actually said.

"I found my dad."

It took Hardy a moment to sift through possible answers, because his first reaction – 'What the bloody hell have you been thinking even looking for him, you daft wallaper' – would probably not go over well. He had to decide if he cared enough to continue their … for lack of a better word, call it 'talk', or if he'd rather be home on his couch.

The couch was tempting, but the idea of Tom Miller wanting to see his father and what would and could and might happen if he did was too scary to imagine. Miller had just recently become less twitchy whenever Joe became a subject, and he rather liked her less twitchy. It diminished the danger of having a mug thrown at him.

"Ah," was what Hardy's paperwork-addled brain decided on. "And you looked for him because…?" he deliberately added, sticking to the gist of his first thought but deleting the swearing.

"Just... stuff. You know?"

No. No, he really didn't. For all he'd never asked what had happened to Joe Miller after the shitty outcome of the bloody trial, he was rather certain that all of the parties involved where better off with Joe out of the picture. Luckily, Tom didn't need for him to supply words to explain.

"Just… wanted to know where he is. 'S all."

Yeah. Like hell.

"Right. And now you know. How do you know?"

Tom muttered something, and it might have been 'Mark' he'd said but Hardy had by then decided that he didn't want to know. Not really. Just in case. It was getting chilly, and while it was still early enough for a boy Tom's age to be out, it was dark and he was tired. For all he cared, the boy could have hired an investigator from his pocket-money. The outcome was the same. Tom knew the whereabouts of his father, and he certainly didn't get the information from his mother. What worried him was what Tom would do with that information, because none of the options were desirable.

With a deep sigh, he ran his hand through his hair, then let it drop heavily against his side. "It's getting late, Tom. Better go home. I … I know it's hard for you right now, I do. But whatever you're thinking about… please talk to your mother before you do anything."

Tom looked up and stared at him curiously and a cheeky smile stole on his face, looking oddly wrong on him, considering the topic. "You're scared of her, aren't cha? Sir?"

"I'm not scared of your mother," Hardy scowled, though maybe that was a lie. "I just… Talk to her. Whatever you want to do with your newfound knowledge, it concerns her, too. That's all I'm saying. I promise not to tell her about this, if you promise to not do anything without talking to her first. Deal?" He held out his hand.

Reluctantly, Tom took it. "Yeah, 'kay. Deal." They started walking again until they reached the crossing that led down to Miller's house. Tom was already three feet away when he turned once more. "Thanks," he said, giving a little wave from hip-high.

Feeling rather pleased with himself, Hardy went home.


	2. Chapter 2

It was two weeks later when Tom intercepted him at the car-park behind the police-station. He was shifting around and clearly nervous, and Hardy took a bit of time to observe him before stepping in his line of vision. "Tom." He was surprised to see him, but the reason for it was not exactly hard to figure out. Miller was still at her paperwork and if there had been an emergency at home, the boy would hardly have waited at the car.

And certainly not at his.

"Can… can I ask you something? Please? Because I know what mom will say, and I just… I need to ask someone and… Well, there's only you, really. Please?" Well, wasn't that a cheery thought.

Could he send him off? Get him to go inside and talk to his mother? Or did he really have to be nice and helpful to this person, whom he didn't really know at all?

Sighing, Hardy unlocked the car and put his bag on the backseat. "Come on, I'll drive you home," he offered. Standing outside the station would surely not help with the awkwardness of what was to come, and he rather preferred the least awkwardness possible.

Tom quickly scrambled around the car, as if afraid he'd be left behind right after being offered a lift. Hardy shook his head. Teenagers.

Before they'd even left the carpark, Tom started to talk and there was little he could do but listen.

"So, I know what happened, what Mom said about Dad. I mean, I know … I know, but the court all said he wasn't guilty. And then we chased him away but… what if we were wrong? What if … what if there was a mistake? I mean… Dad might … I mean, he can't. He can't. He… he just can't have done it, right? Right? He's…" And Tom bit his lip, trying to stop it from wobbling. Hardy could see, even without taking his eyes off the road, that it was an unsuccessful attempt. "I mean, he's my dad. He can't have done it." The tears started, dropping audibly onto Tom's rain-coat. Shit. Hardy hated crying, and especially hated it when all he could do was make it worse.

He set the blinker and pulled up at one of the photo-spots at the side of the road. If it hadn't been drizzling and daylight, they would have been able to see those bloody cliffs.

"Tom," he started and then stopped when Tom turned to look at him, eager and hopeful and so bloody sad it caused his heart to painfully skip. He winced, not just from the physical pain. "No," he said because sometimes it was kinder to be abrupt. "No, there was no mistake. I'm sorry, I wish I… I wish it hadn't been your father who killed Danny, but he did. He did. He told me so, in your own backyard and later at the station. Remember when I came to your house that day? That's when he first said he did it. They didn't allow the confession as evidence, though, because-" _because your mom kicked the shit out of him _"because of procedural mistakes. But I promise you, there was no mistake. He killed Danny."

Tom was now openly sobbing, not even pretending to supress it. Hardy let him cry, let him get it out of the system because no words of comfort would suffice for this kind of grief. The worst kind of grief, really: Mourning someone who was not dead, still very much alive but could never be a part of your life anymore.

He'd mourned Tess like this, for longer than he cared to admit. And if he'd bloody cried, nobody would ever know.

After a while, Tom sniffed and wiped his eyes, smacking his lips as if he'd tasted something unpleasant. Silently, Hardy reached behind him and offered Tom the bottled water from his bag.

"Ta," the boy muttered and swallowed. He seemed better, more composed, and Hardy turned on the car and pulled out on the road again, hoping to get him home before his mother found them and started asking questions. They were nearly back when Tom spoke again. "But what if you're wrong? What… what if he was pretending? Covering for someone else? What… maybe he had an affair, and he wanted to protect her and… Maybe he had an…" he stopped himself, probably realizing he was grasping straws. "What if there was a mistake? Mistakes can happen, right?"

They stayed silent for the short remainder of the drive, but before Tom could open the door when they reached his home, Hardy stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You're right, mistakes can happen. But there was no mistake, Tom. Believe me, as much as I wanted to solve that case, once I knew it was your father, I would have given anything to be wrong. For your mom, for you – for everyone, really." He'd liked Joe, that time at dinner. He'd felt jealousy creep up at him when he'd seen Joe and Miller interact – so loving, so attuned, so disgustingly cute. So much like what he'd yearned for his own marriage to be, and wasn't it a joke that this image of a perfect couple had turned out just as much of a farce as him and Tess?

Still, he'd have given up his job to let Miller keep her happy family, Tom and Fred keep their father and the Latimers keep their friend. Except the Latimers much rather would have kept their child, and all he'd been able to give _them_ had been risking his bloody life to get some certainty and closure. And much good had that done them… But there was nothing else he could have given but that, and he'd tried, tried so hard to make the case waterproof. Keep Miller away from the arrest, out of the loop until everything was done, dot every I and cross every t. And in a moment of weakness, he'd messed it all up again. Showing compassion to Miller had wrecked the case that would have been over then and there.

"I wasn't wrong, though. I know it doesn't help you, but it's the sad, bitter, ugly truth. Joe Miller killed Danny, and he got off free because we – I – made a mistake after his arrest."

Tom bit his lip and nodded, then forced something akin to a smile. "Okay," he said and opened the door. "Okay. Thanks."

Hardy sat in his car and watched him enter the house, waited even longer until he could see the lights in the upstairs-room switch on. Considering the subject, this talk had gone rather smoothly. Apart from the crying, Tom had taken everything astonishingly well; very mature, even.

With a sigh, he put the car into reverse and backed out of the parking-lot, certain that this wasn't over at all.

Bloody Joe Miller. Even years gone, he still managed to make life miserable for everyone who'd touched him. He should probably find out where that plonker had weaselled his way to, just in case.

Times like this, Hardy wished he still smoked.


	3. Chapter 3

A week passed and Tom and Joe were being shoved aside by the life and crimes of Broadchurch. Miller was trying to be funny and sneaky, for some reason determined to make him eat something sugary or fatty at work. Daisy kept trying to set him up with women to date – why she cared was a mystery, _he_ didn't feel the particular urge for either love nor sex right now, and it was disturbing what strange desires his daughter was projecting on him. She'd even dropped a very non-subtle hint that she wouldn't care if he'd rather take a peek at the other side of the fence. Which was good to know, but no.

Broadchurch suffered a slew of break-ins and people were getting angry and suspicious of each other. Maggie kept trying to channel the fear through her blog but the comments were getting rougher and nastier and Hardy feared they would face another lynch-mob if they didn't find some clues soon. It wasn't his case, though as the senior detective it somehow still was his responsibility.

For himself, and oddly unrelated to the other crimes so far, there was a break-in at Harrington's farm where the culprits had run off with ten Speckled Sussex which, Harrington insisted, where especially beautiful and therefor priceless chickens.

They had stolen ten and left two, an oddly specific number. Who stole ten chicken when they could have just as easily taken twelve? And why take the cock and nine hens and not ten hens to at least get some more eggs? After checking with Nigel Carter and confirming his really solid alibi for the night of the theft, he was out of ideas.

As he was musing over the notes from the farm and thinking of actually having to talk to other farmers and chicken-breeders for a suspect – and how had his life turned into this, chasing chicken-thieves – Miller stormed into the office with a mighty scowl on her face. Everything about her screamed _'Out of the way, you wankers!'_ in capital letters, and Hardy decided that he should really check up on Harrington personally, preferably now. Couldn't let some scoundrel run off with nine hens and a cock, after all.

"Orrin, if you can't throw out the bloody old coffee-grains when you take the last cup, I'll dump the mouldy shit right into your drawer, understand me?" Miller's yell was loud enough to be heard downstairs. Hardy winced and pretended he hadn't heard until there was a loud crash and a louder swear from their coffee-area and he realized that he needed to be the boss right now.

He caught her on her way back to her desk, fuming, and waited until she'd slammed the mug onto the table before approaching. Better have the thing out of immediate throwing-distance. "Miller, a word?"

With a put-upon sigh and gritted teeth, she stood and followed into his office, slumping into the guest-chair with her arms crossed, glaring. "What?" She snapped when he continued to stay at the closed door to take her in.

Her hair was unusually dishevelled and it looked like she had tried to put on mascara in the dark. "You look like shit," he stated, ignoring the glower she shot him. "What's crawled into your breakfast today?"

"With all due respect, sir, that's none of your bloody business."

"With no respect at all, it bloody well is when you make it my bloody business by snapping at everyone and destroying office-equipment."

"I dropped a _bloody plate_, not shot the copier. Get some perspective. Sir." He raised his eyebrow and she scowled again. "And it's not like you're one to judge, coming in here snappish and brooding six days of the week. How many plates have you dropped?"

"None," he said, feeling uncomfortably smug about such a petty little win. "But even if I had," he continued, "this isn't about me. So – back to my question. What's bothering you? And if you really don't want me to know, fine. But stop letting your mood out on the others, or stay home if you can't. Understood?"

She still glared, but it was more of a pout now. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Hardy took his seat and went back to the files about the chickens. This town …

It took him a while to realize Miller was still in the chair opposite. He pulled off his glasses and pressed his fingers into the corner of his eyes. "Miller?" he asked, maybe slightly less gruff. At least, he tried for less gruff. Might have missed by miles. Wouldn't surprise him.

"It's Tom," she murmured, shifting about. Oh, dear God… what had the daft lad done now?

"What's he done now?"

"He told me he wants to talk to Joe."

Ah, crap.

Feeling a headache approach, Hardy tried to wait her out. But Miller was the mother of two boys and made of better waiting-stuff, so he had to finally relent. "Has he told you why?"

Miller shifted uncomfortably in her seat, twiddling with a pencil. "Might have buggered that one up," she admitted. "When he told me, I forbade him to do it." Quite right to, Hardy thought but let her speak. "Which led to yelling and doors slamming and we had a big row about it and now he won't talk to me anymore."

This was a mess, indeed. He'd feared that it was the reason Tom had even tried to find his father, and for a moment, he felt guilty for not telling Miller about it. But it was fleeting. He'd promised Tom, and the kid had a hard-enough stand as it was, without everyone running to his mother for every trespass he committed.

Being a teenager was difficult already, he remembered. Being the son of a police-officer made it worse, he'd always thought. Not having anyone to really talk to without people passing judgement must be a nightmare. He winced. "Do you know where Joe is?"

"No," Miller growled, "and I bloody well don't want to know. If I did, I might go there and drown him like the rat he is. Except I would never drown a rat, they're cute when they're not in my garden. Or the shed. Come to think of it, Joe's not even fit enough to be called a rat!" She sniffed and rubbed her nose. "Would still drown him, though."

Supressing a grin, Hardy wanted to tell her that she should look up her ex-husband's location since her son already knew it, but just then Orrin Hagarth knocked on his door and came in. "Sorry, sir, but someone found one of the chickens. It's dead, the vet's looking it over in her office."

Miller raised her eyebrow, amused. Hardy sighed. Maybe investigating chicken-theft would get her out of the mood she was in – and if not, she would at least not bite anyone's head off but his. He could take it – the rest of the office might not.

He stood and pulled on his jacket. "Care to join me in the new and exciting crime-spree of Broadchurch?" he asked, once more suppressing a smile when she tried to seem put-upon while hurrying eagerly over to her desk to get her coat.

"I better do. You wouldn't find the vet if someone chucked you right in front of the door."

She wasn't all wrong, truthfully. He had lived here long enough to feel reluctant to ask for the vet's office at the front-desk downstairs.

O

His resolve to subtly hint at Miller to better check for Joe's new location, just in case, was thwarted by Bertha, the Speckled Wessex. Not by her, personally, as she was quite dead, but by the circumstances of her passing.

Whatever those were, it looked like it had been horrific. What lay on the table was a butchered mess of feathers, guts and blood, and Dr Ingram looked ready to kill someone when she spotted them.

"I know this isn't the same as a dead person, and your priorities lie with people," she growled through gritted teeth, "not lifestock, DI Hardy. But this poor thing suffered terribly and unnecessarily until she died, and you better catch the bastards who did it or I'll go find them myself." She carefully tried to sort the feathers on what remained of the bird's wings but gave up when all it did was move the appendage in ways even Hardy knew wings didn't move. "And nobody will find them when I'm done," she added quietly before she took a breath and went to her desk to get the written report.

Ingram was five-foot two in thick-soled boots and of slight built, kind and compassionate. He wholeheartedly believed her capable of vigilante justice.

"We'll treat it seriously, I promise," he said when he and Miller left with the written report and many disgusting photos. They would, too. Killing a chicken for fun was bad enough. Torturing a chicken for fun was certainly grounds enough to get the culprit off the street, lest he or she decided birds weren't cutting it anymore.

The rest of the day and the following week was spent looking for leads, getting mocked by SOCO and trying to comfort heartbroken Mr Henderson when he asked for the body of his bird and was told she was currently frozen as evidence. He left the consolation to Miller, taking her glare gladly in exchange for not having to deal with a grizzled farmer crying on his shoulder and instead attempted to get more resources assigned for a case of missing chickens.

If he'd been hard-pressed to get enough for the Latimer-case, he'd be truly lucky to get a traffic-warden for this.

By Friday, Alison and Happy-go-Lucky had joined Bertha in chicken-heaven, their bodies similarly mangled, their lives snuffed out in equal if not more disturbing ways. Even Brian and … what's his name, Bob? John? – one of those – had stopped clucking when he or Miller were in their presence. He'd have liked to stop them earlier but knew from experience that it was better to let such things run its course than make an arse of himself by demanding respect.

Respect was earned, he knew. If he hadn't by now for his work, he would hardly get it for being prissy.

On the following Thursday evening, without any more leads and no progress on the burglaries, he was sifting through his files back home on his couch when Daisy dropped next to him with a huff, causing the cushions to dip and him to lose his place. "Hm?" he asked, by now used to his daughter's way of starting a conversation.

"Why didn't you pack yet?"

Frowning, he looked up. "… what?"

"Ugh, seriously. Don't tell me Mom was right and you've forgotten! That would be typical…"

Hardy took off his glasses and swiped at his face, twice for good measure. "Forgotten what?" he had to ask when his brain didn't supply anything even after that. It couldn't be her birthday, could it?

No, it couldn't. He was fairly certain she was a summer-child, born in July. Also, Daisy was more amused than angry, and if he'd forgotten her birthday she would certainly not be smiling. She shook her head at him and tousled his hair – why she kept doing that was as much a mystery as her dating-advice – and grinned. "Aunt Abby's fifty-fifth, Dad. Remember her? Your sister?"

He groaned. Of course, he remembered. Now. To be fair, he and Abby had a fantastically distant relationship, her far away in Birkenhead and him down here in bloody Dorset. This way, he managed to be civil with her husband, that shite-eating wanker. But he'd promised her to be at least at her fifty-fifth, and while he certainly wouldn't win a brother-of-the-year-award, he didn't want 'worst brother in Britain' to be added to his resumé.

Still, he had to at least try. "This case…"

"Dad. It's chickens. You're not seriously trying to ditch your only other living relative's birthday for a few chickens?"

Put like that, he didn't have much of a choice. "Right. You're right. I'll better pack, don't I?"

Daisy giggled. "Yeah, you better. And take your jacket! I know you love it, don't even pretend you don't. It'll be lousy in Birkenhead, I checked the weather-app."

"Well, that's very much not a surprise," he mumbled and went to his room to stuff some clothes into an overnight-bag, memory of the birthday-details suddenly crawling up. Dammit, he'd actually booked a hotel to stay at, he recalled. Where had he put the reservation?

O

Miller was unfairly amused when he told her he'd be gone for the weekend and would leave earlier that day. "Having plans that don't include work is a good thing, Hardy. If it takes you away for a few days, that's even better. And now I know you've got a sister – that's like Christmas and Easter packed in one!" she cackled, not at all impressed by his glare.

"I'll be back Monday, but if anything happens…"

"I have your number. Which I won't call, because I'm a grown-up and actually know my job. And if anyone needs some time away from here, it's you. Take it as father-daughter-bonding time and try to enjoy yourself. I know it will be hard, but at least try to smile once."

Cheeky woman.

First, he'd thought about taking the train, reducing the stress and annoyance of traffic on a mid-Friday. But the schedule to Birkenhead was terrible and would take even longer than driving, and at least in a car he'd only have to suffer one person at his side instead of hundred sweaty, smelly, chatty bodies pressed against him. And this way, he and Daisy might even chat a little and have … well, he would never admit it to Miller, but her suggestion of bonding-time actually sounded nice. He'd not had a good talk with his daughter since Leo Humphries had been arrested, though if asked, he'd say they were doing fine.

Better at least than Tess had predicted when he'd suggested taking Daisy with him to Broadchurch, about a year ago. _"You'll send her back within a month,"_ had been her exact words, and he took an extraordinary amount of pleasure from succeeding where Tess'd had to throw in the towel.

To be fair to her, most of the tension between Daisy and Tess originated from finding out that her mother had not just cheated on her father but also cost them the Gillespie-case and that had ultimately led to him leaving Sandbrook. Since it put the blame for their wrecked marriage more into Tess's side of the field, he had an easier standing with their daughter right now than she did.

A better man than him would probably not feel as content about it and might even take Tess's side more often.

He didn't particularly feel the urge to be that good.

"So…" he started after they'd left the area and were on their way to Charmouth. It would take them up to six hours to get to their hotel in Birkenhead with this traffic, and while it had been tempting to make a stopover somewhere in the middle, it would mean for him to hurry even more on Saturday to reach the bloody restaurant where his sister's party was being held. Who in their right mind planned their birthday for twelve o clock on a Saturday? He just bet it was Howard, her arrogant of a tosser husband. His teeth ached just thinking about that twat. Last time, he'd at least not been alone.

Well, he wasn't alone now, was he? "How's golf?"

For some incomprehensible reason, Daisy had taken up golfing as a hobby. The nearby golfclub had nothing to do with the golf clubs of that tangerine cocksplat from across the pond, all posh and snobbish and white-dress and alcoholic beverage at seven in the morning. It was, like most everything in the area, robust and tourist-orientated, with a youth-team and bi-monthly fun-tournaments with all sorts of funny and inventive rules. Instinctively, he'd wanted her to find another hobby, but after taking a look at the club and the instructor and the open fields of green, he'd had to admit that it could definitely be worse.

This month, she'd come home from her practice soaked to the bone more often than not, but always happy, always smiling brightly, and if he had to look up the prices for golf-equipment now and learn the jargon a little to know what it actually was she wanted for Christmas – well. Nobody had to know.

"Oh, it's so cool! Last week we had a pit-off, and Benny and Samantha were in a team and they had _no_ chance against me and Chloe! We kicked their asses!"

"Language", he reprimanded without real heat behind it and she stuck her tongue out and grinned.

Daisy babbled on about golf and Chloe and Beth and Mark Latimer's marriage and how Mark was staying with them for the weekend. Hardy didn't like gossip very much, even though his work relied on it heavily more times than not. But in this particular case, he was glad he got an insight into Chloe's family without having to pry. It was, after all, not really any of his business and he never felt truly comfortable in the vicinity of Beth or Mark Latimer.

Even though they never said it outright and were too good to do it anyway, he couldn't help but feel like he'd failed them. He'd promised, and he'd delivered in one way but botched it up so much that they wouldn't ever get justice.

Miller said Beth didn't care too much about it, but he knew Mark was a different matter. It had hit him hard, hearing at the trial that he'd been so close to his son's murder-site without knowing, without being able to do something, without even a chance to do something because Danny had been dead already at the time. He'd withheld that detail deliberately before, not realizing it would come up during the trial. I

So getting some inside-scoop from his daughter was all the information about the Latimers' fate he'd allow himself to gather.

In exchange for it, he told her about the chickens. A long time ago, he and Tess had sworn that they'd never involve their daughter in their work, but by now Daisy was seventeen and smart and curious, and instead of actively pretending he wasn't reading case-files at home some days and hide them, he'd started telling her the bare basics of it just to satisfy her curiosity. He'd made her promise to never read his files or look at the pictures or talk to anyone about it, and so far, she'd not broken it, ever. Of course he locked them up at night. There was caution and there was stupidity.

By the time they'd reached Taunton, Daisy was getting hungry. She demanded a proper sit-down and a toilet, so they stopped at a chippy in town and continued on to the M5. Near Bristol, he stopped at a rest-area to put the L-sign in the car and let her take the wheel, feeling mighty fatherly and happy at her beaming smile and eager little skip when she went to the right side of the car. They'd switch back once they were past Birmingham or whenever she tired, but Daisy drove really well and very attentive. She also didn't complain about him being a terrible backseat-driver, so at least something positive had come from the time he hadn't been allowed to drive.

Near Warrington, where they switched from the M6 to the M56, they took another, longer break. Daisy had put her USB-drive on and they'd been listening to her music for a while, and while some was really cringe-worthy, Hardy had found that he quite liked her taste. Nevertheless, he was getting tired and grumpy.

_"Dad, if you don't stop at the next opportunity and get a coffee or something, I'll f… ecking walk the rest of the trip! You're grumpier than ever, it's getting on my nerves," _she'd said and when he found himself scowling at her, ready to tell her to just do it he'd had to admit she had a point.

Now, she was inside the little shop to get a snack for him – against his wishes, but that was Daisy and he would probably eat it because she could make him do things nobody, not even Miller, could get him to do. Hardy fiddled with his phone, which he'd turned to silent for the drive. He'd barely left, surely nothing could have happened that would demand his immediate attention.

To his surprise, once he'd turned off the airplane-mode, the darn thing started beeping and bleeping, notifying of missed calls and texts. "What?" he muttered, feeling dread rise in his chest. That couldn't be good.

All of it was from Miller's phone, except the one from the station. No. No, not good at all. "Bloody hell," he started, ready to read the first text when Daisy tugged on his sleeve.

"Hey, Dad, isn't that Tom Miller?"

With trepidation, he looked up. Ah, crap. "Crap, crap, crappity crap. And yes, that's him. Shit."

Hardy was very certain he knew what all the calls were about.


	4. Chapter 4

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing! I should kick your arse from here to London, you colossal … _prick_! Are you off your head? Did your brain melt? I can't believe …" Words failed him as Hardy pulled Tom along with a firm grip on his wrist. That little shite would not slip away from him, even if it meant he had to cuff him to the car. While ignoring the boy's complaints of police-brutality, he quick-dialled Miller on his phone. "Daisy, open the door," he snarled just as his partner picked up the line.

_"Sir, it's Tom, he's…"_ Before he could process the tears and sheer terror in Miller's voice, he interrupted.

"He's here," he grunted and glared at the prat in question until said prat reluctantly and slightly ashamed slid into the backseat. Daisy, bless her, got in on the other side so he couldn't slip out again and take a run.

There was a moment of silence from the phone. _"What do you mean, he's 'here'? Where's here, and why's he there, and what… is he okay, is he alright? Please … please…"_

_Everyone could be a murderer, given the right circumstance_, he'd once said and still firmly believed. Right now, he felt the overwhelming urge to throttle Tom for making his mother sound like this. Not even after he'd told her Danny's murderer was her own husband had she sounded so small and breakable, and with a smothered curse, he slammed the car-door shut so he wouldn't be tempted to act on his anger and make everything worse by killing Miller's son.

"He's here, with me and Daisy. We're at a rest-area near Warrington, close to Liverpool, and he looks fine so far." _Until I'm done with him_, but he didn't add that. "I've got no idea… well. I've got some kind of an idea what he's doing here but no clue how he got here and when. I'll get it out of him, though, promise."

Hardy heard a sob from Miller and had to go kick the garbage-bin, he was so furious. With some of the tension gone – and being able to get really angry without fainting would never not be precious for him anymore – he put the phone back to his ear. "Do you want to talk to him?"

Miller gave a teary chuckle, then he heard her take a deep breath. _"I don't know what I want to do right now. That boy is lucky he's so far away or I'd … I don't even know. God…"_ He pictured her wiping her face, maybe trying to contain the tears and the rising anger. _"He left me a bloody note on the kitchen-table! Left his phone as well so nobody could track him. I've – Oh god, I'll have to call everyone, tell them they can stop looking. I feel like a fool…"_

"Take a deep breath, calm down, Miller."

_"Don't bloody tell me to bloody calm down! I can fucking well be upset when my bloody –"_ there was a second of indecision before she found the right word "**wanker**_ of a son decides to run off to find his even worse arsehole of a father with just a note on the bloody coffee-table! 'Off to find Dad, be back Sunday'! Who does that? Who taught that boy to do something like that? What… I…"_ She was gasping for breath – impressive amount of yelling, Hardy had to concede. He rubbed his aching neck and looked back towards the car where Daisy and Tom where still on the backseat, probably talking.

"Look," he spoke. "It's nearly eight now. You won't be able to come up here before deep in the night anyway and apart from yelling at him, your presence won't actually help any." He realized that even for him, that was insensitive. "Wait, hear me out. We're on our way to Birkenhead, Daisy and I, and rather than you coming up here and towing him back on his ears – which he deserves, no doubt about it – why don't you take the time to get your thoughts in order, lay out your arguments and all the punishment you deem fit and we'll deliver him back home to you on Sunday evening."

Silence.

Then a slow exhale. _"You're offering to take my teenage son, who's just run away to find his murdering father with you to your sister's birthday? Voluntarily?"_ Hardy groaned. This was a mistake. _"Who are you? What have you done to my boss?"_

"Well, you can always come up here," he snarked back. "It's a very pleasant six-hour drive, with plenty of scenic roadworks and traffic-jams. I'm certainly not driving back to Broadchurch right now, so apart from putting your son in the local gaol for you to pick up, those are your options." God, his head hurt. He wanted a bed so much, the thought of it drove tears to his eyes.

Again, Miller took a deep breath. _"No, of course. I'm sorry. If you're offering, I'll take it. I need some time to get drunk. You go find a hotel – I'll pay the extra for Tom's room, of course – and have him call me back the moment you reach it. The very moment! Don't let him do anything else but call me, because I'm bloody furious and you're right, and I'll deny to have ever said that, but I need to calm down before I talk to him."_ She sighed once more, then added _"thank you. Thank you so much,"_ before she hung up.

Taking a few deep breaths himself, Hardy steeled himself to go back to the car and deal with the moody problem of a lost boy, who needed a psychologist much more than he needed a grumpy copper.

Once he reached it, a look into the window had most of his anger evaporate and he decided to lay off the yelling and let Miller do it herself. Tom was openly crying. Big tears and runny nose, blotchy face and all, and to let himself go like this right next to a beautiful girl must mean he was truly, deeply upset. Dammit. Now he couldn't even be properly angry at him.

Instead of that, he got into the car and looked at the two kids on the backseat via the mirror. "You're coming with us to the hotel, Tom. The moment we're there, you call you mother and if the first words out of your mouth isn't an honest, meaningful apology, I'll let Birkenhead's police dump you in a cell overnight for … exposing yourself to a senior citizen. Understood?"

In the mirror, Tom nodded. "Good. Now, don't think that you're getting off lightly. You won't leave my sight for the whole weekend," and why he had to be punished as well as Tom was yet to be understood "and I demand a very good, very thorough explanation for your harebrained idea to go to Liverpool all on your own. You'll explain how you got here and why you need to talk to your father so desperately that you had your mother alert half of Dorset's police to see where you disappeared to and had her checking every corpse found anywhere in Britain." He was embellishing the truth a little – hopefully, Miller hadn't really been checking dead kids yet – but he was aiming to make the boy truly understand how much of a fuck-up his little trip had been. Tom, sensibly, remained silent and nodded towards the floor. "Good. Now, Daise, you want to sit in front again?" He left it open if she would offer more comfort to Tom or take the superior seat next to him, and he secretly smiled when his daughter patted Tom's shoulder and hurried up to the front.

Tom stayed, not saying a word for the remainder of the drive and neither did anyone else. After two miles of silence, Daisy put her music back on and they drove on, westwards.

By the time they arrived, Eminem had started to grow on him a little.

O

At the hotel, Hardy had to ask for an extra-bed to be put in the room for Tom. The concierge grumpled and gnarled at him, as if he'd just failed to mention a second child deliberately. To be fair, he hadn't told him that he'd picked up Tom at a rest-stop. It would probably paint a wrong and disturbing picture.

Up in the room, the bags had barely touched the floor, he handed Tom his phone and glared at him. "We'll be downstairs, getting a bite. Come down when you're done. That's not a request."

He nodded his head to Daisy, but she lingered. "I really need the loo, Dad. And I look like I've driven six hours – I want to change. If you want to look like a walking wrinkle, that's fine but please let me change first?" she begged and he relented.

"Ten minutes. Tom, your mom's on speed-dial, no need to delay."

With that, he left the room to look for a bathroom in the restaurant because Daisy had beaten him to the toilet upstairs. And maybe he could wash some of the tension off his face there, too. Bloody hell, he'd wanted to escape his sister's birthday by any chance he got, but now he'd rather listen to his stupid prick of a brother-in-law than deal with the mess Joe Miller had left when he'd proved not only a murderer but a coward as well.

Tom did not come down to eat. Hardy had half a mind to tell him off for it but decided against it when, after a good meal with Daisy and a lot of father-daughter-snarking back and forth, he found the boy curled up into his pillow on the pitiful cot by the window. Hardy was in too good a mood to wake him and resolved to have a talk with him tomorrow. With a sigh, he picked up Tom's discarded jacket and boots and put them on a chair to dry out.

His phone was on the dresser, already hooked up to the charger and if that mellowed him down further, just as well. Snooping was his profession, so he checked the call-log and found that Tom had talked with his mother for a good hour. Which should suffice for the night, he supposed. Since Daise'd had the opportunity earlier to use the bathroom, he took a quick shower and brushed his teeth before she could and went to bed. Originally, he'd planned to read a little but he barely heard Daisy come back into the bedroom before he was out.


	5. Chapter 5

Despite what people thought, Hardy was not a morning-person. Well… most people probably gathered that much from first meeting him. He had never been an early riser, usually worked better deep into the night and would have liked to sleep in long into the morning. Since his work-schedule hardly ever offered him such opportunities, it was no wonder people avoided him at seven in the morning at all costs.

His plan for the stay in Birkenhead had been to sleep until nine, have a good, long breakfast and then take his time to get ready for a party he was not particularly looking forward to.

Sadly, that well-thought-out plan was foiled at eight by his phone, which he had left switched on deliberately and for what he cursed himself now. He quickly left the room with the two sleeping teenagers, wearing only his pyjamas, shoes and his jacket to answer. He'd much rather have the conversation with Miller outside, far away from prying ears.

"Couldn't you let me sleep in, at least?"

_"And good morning to you, Miller. How are you, have you slept at all after having your wits scared out of you yesterday? Well, thank you, sir, for kindly asking. I slept about an hour and have scrubbed the whole house, you?"_

"You were the one who told me to let work rest for the weekend. Now you're sassing me for doing just that?"

_"I am, indeed. Now, pleasantries out of the way – Fred, no, please don't eat the crayon, there's a good boy – have you talked to Tom?"_

It was freezing outside. At least no rain, yet. "No. He was asleep when I came back. What's he told you?"

She sighed deeply and sounded old and worn. _"He got a lift through a liftpooling-agency up to where you picked him up. He'd planned to hitchhike for the rest of the drive to where he was going. I didn't even know there were liftpools for the Broadchurch-area but given the number of tourists we get, it shouldn't be surprising. He apologized for scaring me and he cried a lot but he said he's going to see Joe no matter what, and I don't know how to stop him. He also refuses to tell me where he's going, though I guess I could find out-"_

"Liverpool," he interrupted. "Joe's in Liverpool."

_"How… how do you know?"_

"Checked up on him a while ago. He's working as a security-guard, of all things."

_"And you didn't tell me this why, exactly?"_

"Because my memory works fine and you told me you didn't want to know or you'd drown him like a rat. Went on about rats afterwards. Didn't want to deal with the paperwork if you succeeded in getting rid of the bloody wanker."

_"Oh. Well, fine. Liverpool then. Just as well that you're right next door, isn't it?"_

Oh no. No no no no no. "No."

_"He's determined. But if you tell Joe to refuse to see him, he can't and…"_

"I can't just go and tell him, Joe won't listen. And I'm not threatening him!" First of all, he didn't have any jurisdiction, no leverage to compose a threat and this wasn't fucking America, so he didn't have a gun and even if he had, he wouldn't use it. While he would do an awful lot for Miller, there were limits. Seemed he'd just found one.

Hardy sighed, staring at the wet pavement with its disgusting fag-ends and soggy pieces of paper from a nearby garbage-bin. "I didn't even have breakfast yet."

_"Nobody will notice, you don't eat anything anyway. Sir, you owe me for helping with the Sandbrook case. You know you do. I'm not going to, but I am not above cashing in every dept I have accumulated to get my boy back safely and away from his father, you hear me?"_

His stomach rumbled and it was getting towards nine. So much for the needed sleep-in. Hopefully the coffee was good at this hotel, tea wouldn't cut it. He swiped his hand through his hair, noticing disgruntledly that they were sticking up all over the place. He probably looked like an angry hedgehog. "I'll call you back later. I've got to get ready to see my sister and her annoying husband, that'll take hours to prepare." If he were still allowed to drink, it would also take a bottle of Scotch. Through the line, he heard her take a breath. "Later, Miller. Don't make me switch off my phone. If you're bored, solve the chicken-murder."

He hung up on her, too weary for more back-and-forth with her. Instead he went back up to his room where the kids were still snoring and looking well-rested. For that, he let the door slam shut and felt a satisfying amount of glee when both of them shot up from the noise. "Get up, get done, we're having breakfast. Tom, I hope you've got some more clothes than this," he pointed to him, as he'd slept in jeans and shirt and jumper "because I won't be taking you to that party all wrinkly."

Daisy chortled from her bed and, still chuckling, padded into the bathroom. "That from the man wearing his jammies outside, looking like a grumpy echidna."

His glare missed her by miles and rebounded from the closed door. "Right. What've you got in there?"

Silently, warily, Tom went through the backpack and pulled out underpants, socks, another t-shirt with the Incredible Hulk on it and that was it. Kids these days… didn't even know how to run away properly.

While Hardy felt a tingle of amusement at the thought of Tom arriving at his sister's party with Hulk on his chest, he wouldn't let him do it. "Right. You got any money on you?" With averted eyes, the boy nodded. "How much?"

"Hundred pounds, sir. Well – sixty-eight now." At his raised eyebrow, Tom hurriedly added, "earned it, I swear! From doing the paper-rounds."

"Well, good for ya. Take a shower," he said just as Daisy came out of the bath, looking perky and smirking wildly and being his daughter who was living with him, which he still couldn't quite believe. "Get dressed and after breakfast, we'll have a quick trip to get you something more appropriate to wear for a fifty-fifth birthday. You're paying."

Daisy, who'd perked up at him mentioning shopping, sat down on her bed and stared at him as Tom slipped into the bathroom while looking gloomy and annoyed but smart enough to keep his trap shut. The headache was back, and Hardy wanted nothing more than to take a shower himself but he had to wait and instead sank down next to her.

"You're awfully nice, Dad. Are you okay?"

Hardy groaned. "Not you, too."

Daisy grinned. "Sorry. S' just… Don't be too harsh, yeah? He… well. He's an idiot for doing this, I agree, but hear him out before you really yell at him, okay?" She leaned over and put her head on his shoulder and something unpleasantly similar to contentment and happiness rose in his chest and made his heart skip a beat. He leaned over, too, cheek touching the top of her head, and grunted affirmation.

Being his daughter, she knew what he meant anyway.

O

After breakfast and a quick but thoroughly unpleasant shopping-trip that he would rather wipe out of his mind forever and which yielded not only a pair of black jeans and a sensible dress-shirt for Tom but also, for some reason, a new pair of shoes for Daisy which he'd paid for, they had about an hour left before they had to drive to his sister's party-location.

Tom was leafing through a tourist-magazine and looking more and more despondent the longer the day went and Hardy knew he'd have to talk to him before they went or the boy would make a runner the moment he was unattended.

It was either that or handcuff him to his wrist, but he felt he was already unduly punished for his good deeds. Then again, with a little felon chained to his side, at least he could prevent stupid Howard from being too annoying.

With a near-smile over that image, he stood from the bed and jerked his head towards the door. "Tom? Let's take a walk."

Huffing, Tom followed but once they'd reached the street outside, all bluster vanished from him. He looked, once more, like a truly sad and lonely boy who hadn't been able to get over all the shite life had thrown at him during the last years.

Hardy led them to a small park across the road and sat down on the bench, nodding for Tom to do the same. Then he waited.

He knew he could wait a long time. He had patience, more than most people believed he could muster, though the length of time Tom was able to stay silent until he fidgeted was impressive. "I… I'm sorry."

Well, that was a good start. "Go on."

"I'm sorry for scaring Mom. I… I apologized to her, but I guess she's still mad." Hardy raised his eyebrows. Sharp observation-skills there. "And I'm sorry I'm sorta ruining your weekend. It's… It's just, I did what you said, sir. I tried to talk to Mom about Dad, really, I did. Just…whenever I try, she shuts me up and changes the subject or gets angry or sad and… how'm I to ask her if maybe you all made a mistake? About… things. I mean, with all that happened, it's not like I can even suggest it. It'd make her all upset and sad."

He wasn't wrong.

"And if there was a mistake or Dad was covering someone… she wouldn't know, and neither would you… so… so I mean, there's only one person I can ask, is there? And I can't very well phone him, can I? So I thought, just a quick trip, talk, ask him all kinds of things and…" Tom sniffed. "I mean, I don't know. Maybe… I think… I'm not sure I even believe he didn't do it, but maybe there was a reason? Another than you all said there was. And… I mean…" He sniffed again and Hardy chanced a look over. Tom's eyes were glassy and red, not yet spilling over but close to. "I don't know, but… How can he … I mean, I know him, right? He's my dad. He…"

Now, the floodgates truly opened and the tears fell; big drops of deep misery and pain, and Hardy's heart once more did a funny thing and lurched towards this boy with sympathy. He kept silent though, because speaking would break the spell and change the rhythm between them, and right now, all this had to be said and spoken out loud.

He doubted Tom had ever said any of this to anyone. Who would he have talked to? Miller? Hardly. Not about this. And his friends had proven to be little pieces of shite, too. Well, maybe that was unfair. Hardy only knew of the one friend, it was possible there were others. It would still be very awkward to talk to teenage-boys about how your father had killed his then-best-friend because he'd fallen in 'love' with him.

"He's my dad," Tom breathed. "I can't believe he did what all say he did, and if he did…" He was sobbing now and if Hardy had been anyone else, he might have put his arm around him to give a hug. He wasn't very good with hugging, though, at least not to Millers, so he didn't.

Instead, when Tom had calmed down and it seemed he was lost for words, he started to tell a story. "When I was a kid, my parents used to fight all the time. Not just rows – really big fights. Yelling, throwing things, being mean and cruel. All the time. I can't remember a day they didn't at least slam doors or scream. My father always started it. Something always set him off; maybe the wrong colour on his towel or there was a plate on the table left over from breakfast."

The house had usually been spotless. As a kid, Alec had always made certain of that because while his father always started, his mother never backed down and gave back as good as she got and if things were perfect, maybe there would be less yelling? Never quite worked.

"He was a copper, too, and when he was gone to the pub after a row, my mother used to say that he wasn't really like this, that he just couldn't deal with all he saw each day on his job." He stopped, recalling vividly his mother's sad and resigned face when she had tried to console him after a particularly loud, cruel bollocking for some completely inane reason. He'd been … maybe thirteen? Hard to say, but definitely younger than Tom was now. Certainly smaller, he remembered. "And later, when I started in the police myself, back in Glasgow, people were all over me for being my father's son. 'What, you're Alan's son? Well done!'"

As if having been born was an accomplishment on its own. "And even people from the street, people he had met, were happy to tell me stories of how my father had done things for them and been kind and patient and had been there for them in their hours of need."

Hardy wasn't looking at the park anymore, just staring at the trees and trying to remember the face of his father, just like he had tried back then. "It's weird, you know? Here I was, having all those memories of him shouting and kicking the walls and punching the table," not punching people, at least not that he had been aware of, but the constant threat of violence had been so thick it could have been cut with a knife. "And there were people out there saying how great of a person he was to them. How much they admired him. Crime-victims, colleagues, even some criminals. Used to think they were wrong, that there must be another Alan Hardy out there."

There hadn't been. He'd checked.

Hardy exhaled slowly. "It took quite some time to understand that people can be two completely different things at once. They can be pieces of shite at home and kind and helpful at their job. You can be mean and angry all the time but in professional mode, you can shut it off and be what you wanted to be for those other people. And maybe he actually was a kind person and just, for some reason, couldn't be that with us?" Which would lay the blame on Alan's family, and that was just plain wrong. His father had been a raving lunatic, and nothing safe leaving him would have changed his behaviour. There was no one to blame but Alan Hardy. "Never figured out which was the real Alan Hardy."

Tom frowned, thinking. "Did you ever get to see the nice him?"

"No. He died when I was eighteen." About a year after his mother had, and he had certainly not been kind after her death. By then, Hardy had been living on his mate's couches more often than not and any notion of returning home to care for his widowed father had been destroyed after two seconds within meeting the old bastard.

"How… how did he die?"

Hardy chuckled. "Heart-attack," he said and felt Tom snicker beside him. Yeah. He'd been sharply reminded of the absurdity in that, back on the dock when his own ticker had threatened to kill him for being so bloody stubborn. It had been excruciating, and with that experience under his belt now, Hardy wasn't so sure anymore that the old codger had gotten off as lightly as he'd always assumed.

"So, what're you saying… is it that my dad can be a bad man and a good man all in one?"

"Hmhm." Though he'd have to stretch quite far to call Joe a 'good man'.

"But… which is the real Dad? I… all my life he was there, you know? He was always there when Mom was working, when we were sick. Did homework with me, cooked, changed Fred's diapers and cleaned and did all sorts of stuff. He…" Tom choked on the words, "he was a great dad." His voice broke then and he angrily wiped the tears away from his eyes. "He was a really great dad, always there for everything, every problem I had with school and other stuff. Never got really angry – I mean, sure, Mom and he fought but… you know, squabble. Nothing serious. And in court they said… this woman from Cardiff, she said he had a temper, but I never saw him like that. He didn't yell, except when I nearly drilled a hole in my leg with the power-drill, and he never hit me or Mom or … anything. He can't have done that, he can't… it doesn't make sense! He's my dad and…" Tom's eyes were red and liquid and he looked completely miserable and desperate for Hardy to understand what he was saying. "I love him. He's my dad."

And the awful thing was that he did. Hardy did understand and there was nothing he could say to Tom to make this better. Nothing.

But maybe… maybe he could do something.

Tom stood from the bench and walked a few feet away, probably trying to reign in his tears and calm down a little. Hardy's phone-alarm jingled its annoying tune to tell him they had to get back, and a plan was forming in his mind. A bad plan. A stupid plan. A plan that might actually help, but only if everything went right. A plan he'd need time to set up, preferably more than a few hours but that was all he had.

A plan that he needed Miller's blessing for, because it would go against all of her instincts and he wouldn't want to go behind her back with something like this. He didn't have enough friends to endanger even one of his friendships.

"Come on. We gotta go."


	6. Chapter 6

"So, Dad – who are these people? I mean, I know Abby, of course, but… I don't think I met anyone of these," Daisy muttered as the three of them entered the room his sister held her party in. Abby was easy to spot – tall and wiry, with a head full of dark, slightly reddish curls and a long, sparkling green dress, she stood above most of the people like a queen holding court. A wave of fondness passed over Hardy, seeing her like that. Abby had always been elegant and eloquent, had drawn people into her spell without effort. And yet she'd never abused that, never been anything but kind and gracious, to everyone.

Maybe that was why his eight-year old self had thought she should have taken him with her to university and he'd been incredibly angry at her and – Hardy cringed a little – maybe he hadn't ever really forgiven her. He'd not seen her for so long, and the random phone-calls had started to get less and less over the years.

Tess had always reminded him of Abby's birthdays and that he should send a card for Christmas or call her, but since the divorce, he'd simply not bothered. First too occupied and then too chickenshit to make the first step until Abby had taken it on herself to contact him. It was easier nursing a misplaced grouch when not confronted with the target of it, and he'd quite happily indulged in his childish grudge.

Looking at her now, he realized that nothing of that lingering resentment remained, and to think he might have died without her even knowing made him wince. He really was a sorry excuse for a brother. Maybe that award was still an option.

He was still alive, though, so maybe there was a chance he could change his own attitude a little. Shame, though, that her husband was still in the picture.

Resolution made for the next few years – that should count for New Year's Eve, right? – he smiled at Daisy and nodded towards the man close to his sister. "Well, that big bloke with the silver hair, looking like a true-blooded pillock, is her lovely husband, Howard. You should call him George. He hates that." Daisy giggled and Hardy could have sworn Tom smiled as well. "There's your cousin Emmet behind Abby, the one taking all the flowers, and I don't know the girl next to him. Oh, and that's …whatshisname," he snapped his fingers until her remembered his second nephews name, "Steward, right. Pretentious name, but that's not his fault."

Hardy turned around to see if he could spot any other familiar faces, to no avail. "As for the rest – not a clue. Probably friends? Oh, wait… I think that's Aunt Bethel over there, with the purple hair and the toy-poodle on her lap. She's your gran's sister. Well… yeah, that's it. Don't know anyone else here." What joy. Hopefully, he could slip away by mid-afternoon. There were things to be done, and anything was better than standing in a room full of people he didn't know, didn't like – except for his sister – and didn't care for.

"Well, at least they have cake," Daisy grinned towards the buffet, which was stacked high with cakes and tartes and pudding and little sandwiches and smoked salmon and all kinds of things that would feed a nation of hungry orphans. Oh yay. Hardy could feel his arteries clogging. "Come on, Tom. Let's see what we can get."

"Oh no, you wait, young lady. You're going to congratulate your aunt for her birthday and _then_ you can go find something to fill your stomach. Unbelievable, you just ate breakfast!"

"Dad… that was two hours ago. I bet Tom's really hungry. Aren't ya, Tom?"

Awkwardly, Tom shrugged but dutifully kept close to the Hardys as he'd promised. He still looked miserable underneath a constructed layer of bored petulance, so maybe eating lots of cake and other unhealthy stuff would do him good.

With a sigh, Hardy braced himself and made his way through the throng of party-goers to give his sister her present. It was a bracelet, like the one she used to have as a teenager. He remembered that she'd lost hers and it had never been found, and so finding this thing in a little jewellery shop by chance one day had been such a lucky coincidence that he'd not even looked at the price.

It had lived in his pocket for a long time. He'd picked it up before the Gillespie-case, before his world had imploded and left him literally broken-hearted and angry and not able to show anyone just how much. With his earlier realization of where his deliberate distancing had come from, Hardy was doubly glad that he'd found this particular gem for her and not some trivial book or worse, a flower-pot.

"Abby," he said as he stood in front of her, and as she pulled her gaze away from the person she'd been talking to, for a second she didn't seem to recognize him. It was fleeting, though, and Hardy felt a smile creep up on his face when it clicked and she beamed at him with true joy.

"Alec! Oh my goodness," she drew him in a big, long hug, "I nearly didn't recognize you! Wow, you look scruffy, is that a statement or did you really forget to shave?"

Daisy, by his side, laughed out loud. "Hey, Aunt Abby. And no, he looks always that way now. It goes well with the un-ironed clothes but he made an effort today so the suit is impeccable."

"Right. Abbs, happy birthday. This is your annoying niece; in case you didn't recognize her beneath all the sass." He grabbed Daisy gently by the neck and playfully wiggled her, to which she squeaked and slapped his hand away.

"Oh, of course," Abby beamed, bending down to give Daisy a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. "I don't have enough nieces not to recognize you. You look so much like your father did back then." Hardy raised his eyebrows and looked at his daughter. Surely not? "My, you've grown. How long was it since I saw you? Must've been up to ten years!"

"Should be right, Abigail. Long time not seen my favourite brother-in-law. Good to see you again, Alexander. Did you bring your lovely wife?"

Enter bloody Howard bloody Thornton, the thorn in the side of his sister. Even Tess had agreed with him on that assessment.

But before Hardy could answer through his gritted teeth, Daisy stepped in. "Hello Uncle George," she said, smiling innocently and offering her hand. "Good to see you again. How're the stamps?"

Startled, Howard blinked at her. "What?"

"Oh, didn't you used to have a stamp-collection? Am I mixing that up? So sorry. What was it then? Football-cards?"

If he didn't know better, Hardy would see her guileless expression and believe her to be genuinely mistaken. Since he did know better, a wave of pride swelled in his chest – along with a bit of worry about her acting-skills. Yet for this, he silently made a vow to give her the best Christmas-gift he could imagine.

Abby, always the peacemaker for Howard, put herself between them. "Oh, no – haha, no. Howard is all about rugby. Maybe you mixed it up somehow, sweetheart. Alec, come, have a mingle. I'll come over to talk later, I promise." She kissed his cheek. "He didn't mean it like that," she whispered in his ear, but he knew Howard meant it exactly like that.

While he hadn't connected with his sister after that disaster of a case and all that followed, he knew she'd talked to Tess once or twice. Both Thorntons were aware of the divorce, he was certain, so the dig had been very deliberate. But right now, not even Howard's incessant meanness would ruin his mood.

His daughter had stepped in to defend him, and she'd been bloody brilliant!

With a kiss in return, Hardy tapped his pocket to let Abby know she would get her present once she came to talk with him, and he went towards the buffet so his entourage would be happy and satisfied. Maybe he could find some fruity things he actually liked.

O

Tom was sticking to Daisy like glue and Hardy was very glad that he didn't have to pay too close attention to him. The two had tried talking to his nephews, but it seemed that nothing had come of it and now they were sitting at a table with food piled between them, playing some game on Daisy's phone.

Abby had yet to come by, and that meant they couldn't leave yet, sadly. After Howard had intercepted him at the buffet only to start his barbs, Hardy's will to endure this so-called party for his sister's sake had vanished down the drain. Surely there were better ways to show Abby he cared about her than set himself up to be provoked by her sodding husband?

_'Alexander'_, Howard had said with a false smile. _'So, how's your job going? Heard you had a bit of a celebrity-status there for a while?'_

Forcing the corners of his mouth upwards to imitate his brother-in-law's impression of cheerfulness, Hardy had remained silent and simply nodded briskly. His appetite had vanished, though, and he'd returned his plate to the stack.

_'Must be fantastic, to be in the papers so much. I imagine it gives one a real sense of importance. I especially liked the articles in the Herald.'_

Even with every bit of imagination and suspended disbelief, there had not been a chance that Howard had meant anything but the 'Worst Cop in Britain'-thing. _'Really? Even those without pictures?'_

Howard was in general just intelligent enough to understand when he had been insulted. It had always infuriated him when someone could outwit him and show him up, which was one reason why Hardy and he wouldn't ever get along. The other was that he was a complete twat.

Instead of leaving in a huff to have a wee cry, Howard had leaned with an outstretched arm against one of the pillars of the room, cutting off Hardy's path quite deliberately while appearing casual. _'I wish you'd been able to bring Tess. She'd been such a nice person – shame about the divorce. Who's that lad you keep dragging around? Your daughter old enough to have a … boyfriend? Does Tess know about it?'_

Hardy was sure the creaking of his clenched teeth must have been audible through the room. _'First of all – none of your business. Second of all…. No, still none of your business. Now, _please_ get out of my way.'_

_'Oh, like that, is it? So… Is he like your lad? I won't judge, I mean_' he'd raised his hands up high to show that he truly, really was judging already _'bit old for being your new kid. Is he from another woman? Got a new wify, Alexander?'_

It had taken Hardy every conceivable calming-technique to not punch his shiny teeth out right then. In the end, his experience with reporters had given him the ability to walk away and not react outwardly to the open provocation. Anything he would have given him would have been used to sting him even more, and so he'd simply left him standing, gave him a tight-lipped smile and nothing else before slipping out of the room and out of the restaurant for a few minutes to get some fresh air.

Not for the first time he wondered what could have possibly driven his sister to marry – and stay married with – that bawbag. What would they even talk about? Howard couldn't possibly be _that_ good in bed.

When he'd come back in, Howard had been gone and Hardy had sat down at a random table to nurse a cuppa and nibble on some tiny sandwiches. The table had been occupied, so for about twenty excruciating minutes now, he had been the victim of Mrs Eloise Brightham-Viscant, who'd been telling him about her husband's new gardenia-obsession and subsequent problems with getting the dirt out from under his nails.

It made Hardy think of SOCO Brian and what kinds of things would be stuck underneath his nails after work.

"And let me tell you, even with the dirt it's so much less of a hassle than the poultry. Really, Bob and his birds had nearly driven me up the wall, but of course I never would have wanted it to end like _that_!" Eloise was prattling on and on, talking about the difficulties of poultry-upkeep now and Hardy was hardly listening, her words a white noise in the back of his attention.

He was watching his sister interact with her friends, bright and happy and fully in her element. Howard kept intercepting his wife at every opportunity, injecting himself in every conversation Abby had and touching her at every opportunity.

It was worrying, possessive and demeaning, and Hardy wished he could just blend it out at least for a day. It wasn't the first time he noticed that behaviour. Tess had commented on it, too, back in the days. But he and Abby'd had a big fight about Howard once, years ago when he'd still been happily married and Daisy just a wee toddler. Abby had insisted everything was fine, that her husband was just a sweetheart and attentive and would never harm her and Alec should leave his badge at the front door in the future. She'd gotten really cross with him and maybe, now that Hardy thought of it, that, too, had played a role in cutting Abby out of his life more thoroughly. If his suspicions were correct, he knew that was probably the exact wrong reaction. Looking at her now, though, she clearly had a firm circle of friends who very obviously loved her.

Maybe his sister was right and he was reading too much into Howard because he hated his guts? Well – the feeling was definitely mutual, so if he could keep true to his resolution in the future, Hardy would just have to ignore Howard's existence or make sure they were never at the same place at the same time.

"There you are, little brother." He'd not paid attention, too lost being 'broody and Scottish' as Miller would have said, and suddenly Abby was sitting beside him, happy and content in her little world and thankfully not privy to his thoughts.

He deliberately banished the gloominess and smiled brightly. "Abbs, you're looking great today! How are you?"

They chatted a little while Howard was distracted at the bar, and he listened to her stories about school – she was a maths-teacher – and told her very rough outlines of his life in Broadchurch.

"It's so funny. Really, I never would have figured you to end up there, of all places. Thought you hated that place when Mom and Dad took you there?"

Abby hadn't been on that particular holiday; she must have been at university already. Good for her.

"I did. Sometimes I still do. But… it's a good place, helped me a lot. Though maybe that's not the town as such…"

"Ahh, that big case you cracked there, Alexander?"

Hardy rolled his eyes and scowled into his teacup. Of bloody course Howard would come back now to haunt them with his personality. "Fuck off," he said before he could stop himself but refused to feel bad about it. Instead, he added, "I'm having a talk with my sister for her birthday. Go bother someone else for a few minutes – I won't pack her in my bag and carry her off to Dorset. George."

Abby rolled her eyes as well. "Behave, you two. Howard, darling, please leave us alone for a few minutes, yes? I don't see Alec half as much as I'd like to."

Grumbling, Howard obliged and Hardy felt a trickle of understanding. The ease with which his sister handled her husband was remarkable – maybe it wasn't so much possessiveness and male pride that drove Howard to his behaviour but fear? Fear and belief that Abby was so far out of his league that she could easily leave him behind. It was still a dangerous mindset, he knew, but at least it put his sister in a much better position than the other option.

"I wish you two would get along," Abby sighed. "At least a little bit better. Can't you leave your grumpy attitude at home for a few hours?"

"Well, I wish your husband would stop being an arsehole, then maybe I'll be less of a grump. But sorry, it's your birthday, not… well. Not something else. Here, I … here." Awkwardly, he handed over his gift, trying not to show his anxiety about her reaction.

She smiled and opened it, gasping when she realized what she was seeing. "Oh, Alec!" Having her around his neck and squeezing him felt good, oddly freeing. He knew he'd been a bit starved of contact since the Gillespie-case and only recently, with the addition of Daisy in his home, it had gotten better.

Knowing he'd done something right felt very good, too.

"Happy Birthday," he whispered again. "Been meaning to give it to you for ages but… stuff happened and all. Sorry that I was so distant. Didn't mean to be, but…"

"I know," she sniffed and leaned back, carefully taking the bracelet out and putting it on. "It's so wonderful. Can't believe you remembered… you must have been what, six? Seven? when I lost mine." She hugged him again. "Thank you, it's perfect." Looking at her wrist and moving it so the bracelet caught the light, she smiled and with a pang, Hardy was reminded of their mother one Christmas Morning, when Alan had been on shift and they'd unpacked their presents without him. It had been bright and happy, and their mom had looked so beautiful. Just like Abby was looking now. Radiant. Abby took her eyes off the bracelet and looked him in the eyes. Something in them softened her gaze, and she put a hand on his on the table. "Alec… You desperately want to leave, am I right?" He wanted to deny it but she squeezed his fingers. "Please, don't insult me with a lie. I know you, little brother; you hate crowds and unfamiliar people, and this is all of the above. So," she smiled and kissed his cheek, "go. It's okay. I'm really glad you came by, and I'll give you a call and I expect you to return it! Understood? If not, our next holiday might just be in Broadchurch!"

He chuckled, grateful. "It'll bore you to tears. But … if you ever need anything, make sure you call me." Hardy couldn't help seeking out Howard in the crowd, spotting him with some blokes laughing and keeping a sharp eye towards him and Abby. "Anything. If I don't answer, call Daisy."

Abby petted his arm. "There's no need to worry, Alec. I promise. But thank you for the sentiment. I do appreciate it. Now – off you go. And, by the way – who's that boy that's hanging around my niece? For some reason I doubt he's her boyfriend."

Hardy noisily blew out a breath. "Long story. He's my …" _Friend's? Partner's? Social guideline's? _"he's Miller's son and one of the reasons I have to leave. I… well. Maybe another time I'll stay longer."

He kissed her goodbye and went to collect the kids and they left with half as much trouble as he'd imagined, feeling a few hundred pounds lighter. Now, on to the next task.

It would probably not feel half as good as this.


	7. Chapter 7

_"Absolutely not! Have you lost your mind? Hardy! That's exactly the opposite of what I want for Tom, so no. No, no no no and no! Never. No!"_

Hardy squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. That was about exactly the reaction he'd anticipated, though so far, the swearing had been suspiciously reduced. Fred was probably in hearing-distance. "Listen, they won't be alone. I'll be right there, they won't leave my sight, I promise."

_"Oh, right. Because that worked _so_ well with Claire Ripley! Just because you're unlikely to keel over from a strong gust of wind doesn't mean I'd trust you to protect my son!"_

"You're already trusting me to protect him, or is he not right here with me right now?" he shot back, stung.

Miller was silent for a while. _"Sorry."_ She sounded it _"That was uncalled for. But it's … it's different. I mean, generally keeping Tom safe – that's a given. But … Joe and…"_

Hardy sighed and tried to think of a good enough argument to sway her towards his idea. It was hard. He wasn't actually all that fond of the idea himself. His arse was getting cold since he'd chosen the same bench he'd sat with Tom on for this call. The weather was unpleasant enough to grant uttermost privacy and his jacket kept at least his upper body dry and warm, but it was fairly miserable, sitting in a park in the drizzle just to have a phone-call. "Look. Tom's already here, in grasping distance of his goal. Right now, he's sticking with us but he's sixteen and determined and … and maybe he needs to do this. I don't like the idea of him talking to him, either, but I don't think anything short of handcuffing him to your house will keep him from it on the long run. I really think it's necessary. For Tom."

There was a sniff from the other end of the line and he patiently waited for Miller until she was able to speak again. When nothing came, he continued. "Do you think he'll physically hurt Tom? Is that it? You know him best and…"

Miller snorted. _"Turns out I don't know him at all!"_

"But you do. Even if he deceived you, you lived together for at least twelve years. Even I can still spill some of the worst traits of Tess and Tess will happily talk about mine – and we'd be mostly right, too. Do you think that Joe's capable of physically hurting his son?"

_"Four years ago, I'd have laughed in your face. But I would have also laughed about the idea he'd hurt Danny, or desire an eleven-year old boy. So honestly, I don't bloody know!"_ She paused. _"But after what his colleague said… I think he might."_

An old man with a dog walked by. The mutt was wearing a tartan-coloured dog-coat and it trotted slowly and miserably behind its owner. It would have probably preferred to stay inside. "Tom said he never even yelled at him. Never raised his voice except when he was scared for Tom."

_"When I think back, there's not a moment in our life I ever thought he was capable of violence against his children. And yet…"_

"Yeah." There was no denying that Joe was capable of violence against children. Maybe he should cancel his stupid idea.

He was just about to tell her to never mind, he'd get Tom back somehow and tether him to Broadchurch, when Miller continued. _"Then again, when we… when we chased him out of Broadchurch, he wasn't angry. He was scared, and desperate and delusional. He thought he could get his life back,"_ she growled, _"as if being acquitted meant he was innocent and everyone would take him back with open arms. So… I don't think physical violence is the real threat." _

He waited. And waited, as it was clear she wasn't yet finished. "But?"

Something rustled and after another pause, Miller murmured, as if she didn't want to say it out loud. _"What if … what if Tom wants to stay with him?"_

Hardy gritted his teeth and scratched his beard, suddenly understanding what she was so scared of. "You think it's possible?"

_"Daisy did."_

Startled, he held the phone away from his ear and stared at the display, not sure what he was expecting to see. "Well, thanks a lot."

_"Oh, no – I didn't mean it like that! Obviously not the same! But … he could. Tom … if he thinks Joe is innocent, even now still doubts everyone … there is every possibility that he'll want to live with him."_

Yeah. Legally, he'd be allowed to do that. As Joe had walked free, if Tom so chose, he could demand living with his father from now on. But … would he? "Is he still so angry at you that he'd have a reason to drop you and Fred and his friends and life just to live with Joe? Because that's why Daisy moved in with me – she was furious at Tess."

_"Really? I thought she just wanted to live with your cheery, sunny attitude around her all the time."_ If Miller could snark, they were getting somewhere. _"Why's she so angry?"_

"Found out about Tess and Dave and the pendant," he said, off-handed. On the street outside the park, a van drove through a puddle, splashing water over a woman with a cane. The woman cursed impressively after the driver but they either didn't hear or didn't care.

Something dropped in the Miller-household, something metallic that made an awful racket. Hardy had to pull the phone from his ear to keep his eardrums. _"What? You mean _Tess_ was the one who lost it? Are you serious? And you're only telling me that _now?"

"Well, you're a detective! I thought you knew!"

_"Bloody hell…"_ He could hear her pace around whatever room she was in through the line. Some plates and cutlery were being stacked now, the metal-thing probably picked up from the ground. Miller was cleaning during the call, undoubtedly had him on speakers. He hated the things but would have liked the use of both his hands to be able to put more than one in his pocket. _"Well, doesn't matter now. Anyway… do you think it's wrong to think that about Tom?"_

The man with the dog walked by again, this time in the other direction, carrying a bag with groceries. The dog looked a lot happier to be walking towards home.

"Honestly?"

_"Yes! I wouldn't ask if I wanted a lie. I can give those to myself just fine."_

"I think you have raised a good kid, Miller. Whatever stupid things he's done, I believe his heart is in the right place. Maybe … maybe trust him a bit more in this case."

It was so utterly silent on the line that he had to look at the phone to see if he had suddenly lost the connection. "Miller?"

_"You… you'll be there? The whole time?"_

O

Afterwards, he took Tom aside. The boy was still grouchy and shifty, and Hardy had the distinct feeling that he was minutes away from taking off, probably realizing that his window of opportunity was slowly closing.

"I talked to your mother. She's coming by tomorrow to take you back home," Tom's eyes widened, and Hardy hurried to continue. "She has also – reluctantly! – agreed that you can talk to Joe."

Tom opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He looked like a deer in the headlight, or rather a fish on land, opening and closing his mouth as if to draw in air that wasn't coming.

"There are conditions," Hardy warned. "I will be there. Not so that I can hear you, but you will not leave my sight, under no circumstance. Is that understood?" Tom nodded eagerly. "Good. I've got enough pull with the local police to have you picked up if you disappear on me, and your father will not fare well in that situation, believe me." Again, Tom nodded. "You'll meet him at his work-place, out in the open. So bring warm clothes – it'll be bloody cold. I won't be listening in on you, I promise. This won't be a trick, there won't be any trying to force some confession out of him – this is between you and him, and not about the bloody case." He knew Joe had killed Danny, and everyone privy to the taped confession knew it as well. Hearing it again, getting evidence that would still not be valid in court, would help nothing. If they ever managed to put Joe Miller where he belonged, they'd need more than that. "But maybe that won't convince him, so… Just tell him what you want to tell him and see where it goes, okay?"

Once more, Tom nodded eagerly and when they returned to the hotel-room, he looked relieved and excited. Daisy was clearly surprised at the change of attitude, and she gave Hardy a look that conveyed her questions. He nodded, mimed 'Later' and she left it at that.

He was so bloody proud of her, his heart might not be able to take it.

To get Tom out of his way for a while, he sprung two tickets for a movie they both had been able to agree on. Daisy, still making his heart swell at every turn, promised to not let him out of her sight. Christmas would be crushing his finances this year. She deserved at least a pony. Or maybe he could take her for a holiday abroad?

The kids safely stored away, Hardy buckled his sturdier trousers, put on his warm jacket and made his way to Liverpool Shipping Port, having checked that Joe Miller would be working tonight. He'd rather eat nails than do this, but for Tom and Miller's sake, he would have a chat with that man.

He wished for a drink, but being sober for this was essential.


	8. Chapter 8

The harbour was cold and windy and wet. Not surprising, really, but it didn't exactly improve his mood. He'd asked for Joe, was told where he worked and made his way over to his little security-booth. Through the window, Hardy had his first look in two years at Joe Miller.

He was still bald, the remains of hair still shaven closely to his head. In the overheated booth, Joe wore a uniform-shirt with the sleeves rolled up but a warm-looking woollen jumper, a coat and a blue knitted cap were hanging on a hook by the door.

Joe was alone.

Giving more curtesy than he felt was deserved, Hardy knocked on the door before entering. Joe looked up and then jumped like a cornered animal, eyes wide and panicky as if he expected Hardy to pull a gun and shoot him dead.

Funny. He'd not expected that reaction, but it would make this work so much easier.

"DI Hardy. What… Uhm." Joe's eyes flitted along the walls, to the window, at the door behind Hardy, clearly looking for an escape-route. All the time during the trial, Hardy'd had the impression of a compulsive, oddly successful liar who'd set out to make everyone's life miserable after killing his son's once best friend. But maybe that man in front of him was just a pathetic little shit, scared of his own shadow and too much of a coward to take the consequences of his actions. As he was standing there, skittish and afraid, one could nearly call him pitiful.

Except that the last thing Hardy felt for him was pity. "I'd like a chat with you," he said, deliberately stepping away to free the way out of the door. He didn't think Joe would run – where would he go?

He'd also improved his own running-skills since the last time Joe had bolted from him, had in fact taken up running in the evening – well, mostly at night when nobody was bloody watching – after clearing it with the cardiologist. There was no way Joe Miller would get away, but chasing him was not his intention and would counteract the purpose of this … let's call it 'visit'.

"I… I don't have anything to say to you!" Joe blurted, trying for bluster but failing horribly. Hardy rolled his eyes.

"Don't need to say anything, really. I'll do the talking. Let's walk." For one, Hardy liked to see the place Tom would talk to Joe tomorrow, and secondly, he didn't want to sit in this stifling booth so close to Joe Miller and look at that man who'd destroyed so many lives alongside the one he'd actually taken.

Luckily, Joe took the offer and Hardy waited outside, hands in his pockets and leaning against the wall, letting the chill and salt and the sound of the waves and the _ding-ding-ding_ from a cord banging against a flagpole calm him down. The water was ultimately the same in the Irish Sea as it was in the English Channel, and yet even here, in the shelters of Liverpool Shipping Port, it seemed angrier than it was in Dorset. Less forgiving.

He still didn't like being too close, but after years of living at the sea, it had wormed its way into his blood more than he would have thought or liked. Nowadays, if Hardy found himself in a landlocked city, he started missing the salty air and the call of the seagulls, despite hating the buggers whenever he actually saw them.

Thinking of gulls led him back to the conversation at the party. He felt himself frown… hadn't that woman said something about chickens? Bloody hell, what had been her name again? Petunia or something?

Just as he pulled his mobile out of his pockets to ask his sister in a quick text, Joe stepped out of the door. Still hesitant and trying to cover his fear by overcompensation, he took his big Maglite and hung it on his belt, making a show of its weight and his ability to hold it straight. Hardy nearly laughed. "Might as well do my round now, if you don't mind."

He didn't. Anything to not look at him.

"So, uh. What… what brings you here, DI Hardy? Not looking for some kind of taped evidence, are you?" Joe furtively glanced up and down Hardy's body, probably trying for subtle and failing miserably. How had this man even been able to hide his guilt for so long? Even after his break-in at the hut, the place of Danny's death, nothing had made Joe Miller seem suspicious. Would things have been different if Miller had been home more often? Would he have been able to deny Miller access to her husband after the confession if he hadn't felt like a walking corpse after his heart had given out in the docks?

It didn't matter. Things happened as they'd happened and they could only ever walk from there.

"No. I have all the evidence I need, personally. We had all we needed for court, but we fucked it up so here you are. You don't deserve to be free, but we should have done our job better." Hardy surprised himself with his honesty. "No, I'm here because of your son."

That stopped Joe short. "Tom? Or Fred? I… are they… are they okay? Please… don't tell me something happened to them." Genuine fear was all over him, and for once it wasn't about him and his own well-being. For God's sake, there were even tears in his eyes!

"They're fine," Hardy assured him. Even if Joe was a shite of a human being, his affection and love for his children had always felt genuine. Still did, now.

"Ellie?"

He growled. "This isn't a social visit, Joe." Hardy refused to call him 'Miller'. Miller had curly hair and a button-nose, wore terribly bright jackets and always tried to force food on him. This man would remain 'Joe' and nothing more. "I'm here on behalf of Tom, who's determined to talk to you. Against his mother's wishes, against common sense, against my advice and probably against all kinds of advice from everyone he'd ask. But he's sixteen and he wants to, and that's why I'm here."

Joe had stopped walking and blinked out at the water. His shoulders were tense and he was curling his fists but it didn't seem like a bout of anger or temper flaring up. Maybe he was fighting down hope, like Hardy had done before every doctor's visit. Battling the rising hope that maybe his heart wasn't damaged and maybe that had all been a terrible mistake but knowing deep down that it was and it wasn't and he would have to deal with it and possibly die. Hope could be a terrible thing.

"Tomorrow, I'll bring Tom around so he can talk. You'll talk here, and I'll be close by so don't even think about doing anything tremendously stupid. I won't be listening but neither you nor Tom will be further than twenty feet away. This is your only chance to talk to your son for a long time, maybe forever, and I would advise you make the most of it. Your cowardice in court nearly broke everyone involved, ruined so many lives that could have been spared the pain if you'd had the bloody balls to stand up to your deeds. They were your _friends,_ and not only did you take away their son, you let them be slaughtered and slandered by your barrister. But oh no, noooo, that wasn't enough! No, you had to drag your family in as well! Just bloody luck that Fred was too small to understand what was going on, or you'd have let him be called up in court as well, I bet!" All thoughts of pity, of being civil for Tom's sake, had flown out of the window and Hardy was giving way to all the rage he'd felt those endless weeks during the trial, when the only way to not punch a wall out of frustration was by channelling the anger into action towards another case, one he'd ruined as well but with a chance of salvation for all involved.

He'd been bloody lying to himself that anything would be better after knowing the truth, but the Gillespie-case had been his lifeline and he'd done it - _they'd_ done it. Miller had done it.

"Hey, no, that's not true! I didn't know Tom would go to court, I swear! It wasn't my idea!"

"But you didn't stop him, did you?" Hardy snarled. "You took his desperate desire to help his dad with grabby hands and used it, let him sit there and spew half-truths about your fucking _friend_, whose son you _killed_, and you didn't stand up and say 'Stop, I did it, stop this!' – did you?" He was aware his accent was getting stronger the longer he talked – yelled, more like it – but he was sure Joe got the gist. "You had all the chances in the world to end that farce, all the moments you could have kept your decency, but you let it slip by, sacrificed your _son_ for fear of prison. You're a very, very small man, Joe Miller. You had it all, and you not only lost it, you actively threw it all away. Cast it off you, as if it were nothing, as if they all meant nothing to you."

That evening at Miller's home jumped to his memory, unbidden. The warmth of the house, the laughter between Miller and Joe. The ease the two had talked and interacted and the dark pit of jealousy he'd felt, watching them be so bloody great and happy.

What a bloody waste of happiness.

Taking a deliberate, deep breath, Hardy tried to reign in his anger. It wouldn't help now, and this wasn't about him. It was about Tom. "Apparently, you were a decent man, once. I don't know what happened to change that, but you've fallen quite a long way since then. Your son, though, is determined to see that good man inside of you, and it's remarkable that he still believes in you. He's desperate to believe that everyone else was wrong, that you didn't kill Danny, even though we all know you did. So – tomorrow's your chance. You will never reclaim being a good man, you ruined that one spectacularly. But you're not stupid, Joe. And you might still salvage your status as a good father. Don't waste this opportunity. It won't come again."

With that, he left the stunned man standing in the wind, walking briskly away out of fear he might just shove him in the harbour and do what Miller wanted to do.

It was water, though, so Hardy would probably just chuck him in and leave, hoping he'd drown all on his own. That nasty stuff had done enough to him already.

O

On the way back, just as Bono was wailing about the Bloody Sunday, his phone rang. His coat was on the backseat and he stopped by the side of the road to get it in case it was Miller, or maybe Abby calling him to tell him the name of the chicken-woman. He'd texted her before he'd reached his car, knowing he'd forget if he put it on hold now. He was so bloody furious, he wouldn't be able to think clearly for the rest of the night.

It wasn't Miller, and also not Daisy, so he could probably ignore the call. But since he was parked anyway… "What!" he barked into the phone.

_"Alec, your phone-etiquettes have not improved." _Tess. Exactly the person he wanted to talk to after the day he'd had. First Howard, then Joe Miller and now his ex-wife. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"What do you want? It's ten at night, I'd rather sleep than fight with you now for whatever it is we will fight about. What's that number, anyway?"

_"Out of battery. I'm calling from a landline. Anyway, I don't want to fight with you. Are you still with Abby?" _

"No," he sighed, "I'm in the bloody car. Why, did you want to talk to her? She's got her own phone, hasn't changed her number." But maybe Tess had lost it? What good would it do her to keep the number of her ex's sister with whom she hadn't talked that much anyway?

_"Is Daisy with you?"_

Now he frowned and a niggle of worry was creeping up. Surely Tess wouldn't sound as calm as she did if something had happened? "No. Why?"

_"Because she isn't answering her phone and she hasn't called me. It's Saturday, she always calls me. Are you sure she's alright?"_

Wearily, Hardy laid his forehead against the steering-wheel. "She's at the cinema. Probably forgot. I'll tell her to call you later. This the number you'll be at?" Maybe he was prying, but maybe he wasn't – nobody would be able to prove either.

_"Yes. She already has it. Make sure she's alright, yes? Why's she at the movies alone? Why didn't you go with her? Did you two have a row?"_

Right. Not fighting. This was not an accusation… Just a simple, very innocent question. And the little uptick of her voice was certainly not her 'I'm annoyed but I'm trying to be reasonable here, Alec'-clue. "Because I'm boring. She's fine, Tess. We're in bloody Birkenhead, most of the population is already in bed." Where he wanted to be, too. "I'll tell her you called. Bye." And he hung up.

It felt like some sort of victory to do so. He never hung up; usually he fought it out with her until they both started to draw blood.

God, it was a good thing he'd moved away. Despite missing her and having loved her and still sort of loving her for the person he'd married and the good time they'd had, there was truly nothing left of his marriage to salvage. Maybe things would have been different if Daisy hadn't found out about Dave and the pendant but she had and ever since then, the two had been at each other's throats all the time. At first, she hadn't confronted them, just acted out against Tess and at school and otherwise drawn attention of the unpleasant kind to herself.

Then, one night after fighting with Tess, Daisy'd dropped the bombshell and outright asked her if she'd had an affair before the divorce and everything had gone downhill from there.

Despite not having told Daisy – she'd found out alone, by observing and reading newspapers and overall being a very clever girl – it felt like Tess somehow blamed him for the deteriorating mother-daughter-relationship. And Hardy wasn't a good enough man to take _that_ blame lying down. Not anymore.

Moving away, taking Daisy with him, had been the right choice. Tess was still her mother and he knew they loved each other. But sometimes absence truly made the heart fonder, and ever since she'd come to terms with her life at small-town Broadchurch and those bawbag-boys from class had left her alone, Daisy and Tess had started to connect better. Through the phone.

With a glance at the clock – half past ten – he made his way back to the hotel. The kids would be back soon and he needed sleep before making this same way again tomorrow, this time delivering a teenager to what would probably be the worst conversation of his life.

He'd also have to explain to Daisy what he was up to and had to find some way to make it up to her. To think he'd wanted this trip to be a bit of a bonding-time for the two of them… Life really liked to cock things up for his plans.


	9. Chapter 9

At breakfast, Tom was fidgety and silent, picking at his food like a bored chicken.

Christ, what was it with the chicken always!

Daisy was trying to engage him in conversation, but Tom never caught up and instead looked paler and paler. Hardy could emphasize. Eating with that kind of stress hanging over the day was a monumental issue, not just killing appetite but making the food taste like ash and dust and the process of chewing plain disgusting.

He knew from experience and pulled out his phone to text Miller so she would bring some food for the drive back.

See? He could behave responsibly!

Last night, when he'd come back and the two teenagers had tumbled in, Tom had already been looking a bit peaky but the movie and popcorn and maybe the proximity to a pretty girl had let him hang on. Today, not even Daisy's deliberate brightness was getting through.

Hardy, despite wanting nothing but his bed, had taken her aside, first to tell her to call Tess and then to explain why their father-daughter-time would be cut short tomorrow.

_'s okay, Dad. If I were in that situation, I'd want to talk to you, too. Not hearing the truth from you – well, or Mom, you know what I mean, anyone of you – means that there's still hope that everyone's wrong, you know? I mean… When … when I found out about Mom and Dave… I thought maybe it wasn't true. Maybe I'd made a mistake. Maybe… she wouldn't do that, right? That's what I thought. And I didn't want to know if I was right, for a long time because it would mean I was wrong to…'_ she'd sniffed and leaned against him and he'd hugged her softly which she turned into a full-body squeeze. _'I'm so sorry for never calling you back when you were first away. I was so angry at you, for leaving us. I… I didn't know everything and I'm still bloody mad at you both for letting me think that! But … anyway, when I outright asked her and she said yes… there's really nobody else I would've believed, you know?'_

They'd sat outside the hotel-room in the tacky chairs supplied for whatever purpose hotels put chairs on their levels for and said nothing for a while. Then, _'Do you think his father will tell the truth?'_

And that was the kicker, wasn't it? The purpose of this was to get an end for that chapter in Tom's life. Some kind of… closure, maybe, or at least a chance to get that, sometime in the future. But it all hung on Joe, and that was a dodgy hook to hang everything on. Miller hadn't been wrong when she'd said it was a stupid idea. But she hadn't seen Tom at that rest-area, scouting for drivers who would take him to his father, determined to the last to find out what he needed to despite all the risks he was taking.

He supposed he understood. Not in the exact terms, as he'd have believed pretty much anything bad about his own father. But he'd had a hard time believing that the man who came home to his family to shout and yell and scream and throw stuff was the same man who held crying mothers and distraught fathers, had patched up prostitutes and let petty thieves run with a dire warning. Alan had never let Hardy get away with anything but perfect behaviour, so the truth had been very hard to believe.

So yes, he understood. _'I hope so, Daise. I really bloody well hope so.'_

O

Daisy had agreed to stay away from Liverpool Shipping Port, but the only option for a nice morning by herself on a Sunday was the World Museum. Hardy wasn't sure it was exactly what she'd have chosen, but she'd seemed okay with it when he and Tom dropped her off at the entrance.

She'd hugged him and he'd clung to her a bit desperately, not wanting to let her go. Her support this weekend was immense, and he wasn't sure if she could grasp her importance to him quite correctly. _'Dad? People are staring, afraid to go inside. They think they'll not come out again, the way you're clinging to me here,'_ she'd joked and Hardy had chuckled and let her go.

With a heavy heart and a cloud of dread hanging over the car, Hardy and Tom made their way to the port.

Outside the gate, Tom suddenly put his hand up and asked to stop.

"Everything okay, Tom?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Just…" he chewed on his thumbnail, something he'd been doing since before the movie. "I mean… What if… what if…" But even after three more attempts of speaking, his voice stalled after the 'if'.

"Just… say what you want to say and go from there. Nothing else you can do. Sometimes, life throws shite at you and piles it up and up so high you think you'll drown, but all you can do is dig your way out again."

Tom wrinkled his nose, probably imagining himself neck-high in a big do of hog-shit.

"It stinks. But it's either that or sink. Sorry – not much for inspirational talk."

Still pale, Tom smiled and looked over. "Thank you, sir. For… you know. All this."

Aw, hell. Kid might even start to grow on him, this way. "'S fine," Hardy sniffed. "Hope you'll get what you came here for. C'm on, let's go." Awkwardly, he patted Tom's shoulder and they drove through the gate and into the port's property.

Right after taking the curve around the first buildings, Hardy spotted Joe's figure standing lonely near a few rusty-looking steel beams. Even from a distance, Joe looked nervous and a small, nasty part inside Hardy felt like saying 'Good!'. He didn't say anything, though, just parked the car and unbuckled, waiting for Tom's signal. If the boy wanted to run, he'd drive away without a second thought, no question asked.

With a deep sigh and looking pale as a sheet, Tom bit his lips and took off his seatbelt, then slowly opened the door. Hardy followed. "I'll be twenty feet away or less. You wanna leave, we'll leave. Just holler or wave a hand."

Tom nodded, then braced himself and zipped up his coat before taking the first step towards his father. After a few feet, Hardy followed, not taking his eyes off Joe Miller's face.

Unbidden, a tiny inkling of pity formed in the depth of his stomach. Joe's face looked just as pale as his son's and he imagined there were tears gathering in his red-rimmed eyes. Joe didn't say anything even though his mouth was moving, and as Tom drew nearer, a softness spread over his features that reminded Hardy once more of the moments of family-life he'd glimpsed during those weeks when nobody had even thought about suspecting Joe Miller of loving an eleven-year-old boy and murdering him in a fit of rage and desperate fear of being found out.

Why couldn't people just be plain black-and-white? Why did nasty and evil always mix with good and decent, muddled everything up and never leave one with a clear verdict inside their minds?

He'd felt sympathy for Ricky Gillespie and it had vanished all down the toilet when the case unravelled and it turned out that man was just as despicable a liar and pretender as Joe Miller had been. And yet his grief for his daughter had been all-too-real. Had he not tried to cover up Lisa's death and pretend to be the poor, wronged and distraught father to the press and the police and even his wife, there would still be sympathy left inside Hardy's stomach.

He felt desperate pity for Michael Lucas, the boy Leo fucking Humphries had groomed to his liking and his likeness, who had been caught between his own sense of right and wrong and his desperation to find a friend and a connection outside of his sad, sad home, ultimately deciding on the wrong side of that line. It still made him a rapist.

Nothing was easy. Humans were never just one thing. Philosophically, that might be good, but it sure made work that much harder and stomaching the outcome sometimes near impossible.

On the cracked concrete of the port, Tom had reached Joe and the two were standing face to face, taking in the other's features without knowing what to say. What could you say to your son you stole the best friend from, murdered that friend later and kicked their family to the dust? What to say to the man who did all that and who you wished nothing more from than to hold you and promise that everything would be alright again? 'Hello'? 'How've you been'? 'How's school'? 'Enjoying exile'?

In the end, Joe broke the stalemate. "Tom," he said with a wobble, and the wind took his voice and carried it over to Hardy's place those promised twenty feet away.

Well, he had said he wouldn't listen, but if the wind insisted, who was he to deny it?

"Dad," Tom answered and then they hugged. Hardy cringed and looked away for a bit, not wanting to watch that display of happy-family-moment. But they separated soon and with a quick glance at Hardy, Joe inclined his head towards the steel beams where he'd spread an insulated picnic-blanket and a thermos for the two of them to talk.

For a second, Hardy thought about checking the thermos for poison or drugs, but he wouldn't know anything about it anyway and he didn't really think Joe would be so stupid. Tom, though, surprised him by taking his own thermos out of his backpack and, smiling, filled his own cup with the steaming ingredient. Smart boy. Miller should be proud.

Settling for an uncomfortable hour or so, Hardy leaned against his car and tried to pretend he wasn't hearing every word the two exchanged.

"How are you, Tom? How… how's school? Your friends?"

"Good," Tom answered, then turned his head. "School's … school. Michael's in in prison. Mum arrested him for raping a woman a few months ago. Arrested that creeper Leo, too, for making him do it."

That stopped Joe cold and Hardy fought a gleeful smirk. Kid really knew how to stop awkward small-talk.

"Oh. Uh…"

"Dad… I really don't want to talk about home, you know? I… I just came here to tell you something. First, I wanted to … you know, know everything, but maybe… maybe that's not what I'm really here for. So I'm just… I'll just say what's important, 'kay? Can I?"

"Yes, yes. Of course, Tom. Please."

"So. Thing is… I want to believe that you didn't kill Danny. I want to… I want to remember you as my dad, not as … that man. Mom made me talk to that shrink, and he's okay and all but… I need to talk to _you_, tell _you_ all that. So… 's just that I can't pretend nothing happened, that we're happy and you were never there. We moved back into home, you know, and everything there still reminds me. There's my bed and I see the hole where I tried out the power-drill and nearly killed myself, and it reminds me of you yelling at me and holding me and making me stop crying. I see Fred and I see your hand in his curls, making him breakfast. We painted the bedroom, Mom and I, and I see you at the window looking out and laughing over some idiot with a dog on the common. I hear your voice every night telling me Goodnight, or reading me a story and-" Tom's voice hitched and broke off every now and then. But he just angrily wiped his face and carried on. "And I see Mom and then I see you and her, in the kitchen, laughing about something. I see her smile sometimes and then she stops and turns away and gets all sad, but I see you next to her giving her a hug. And I want that back. I want all of that back, you know? I want you back and … and it hurts. It hurts so much to have all those blank spaces where you used to be, all of that … that feelings that belonged to you and I don't know where to put them. I love you, I don't want to be without my dad, but… Then I think about Beth and Mark, and how they want Danny back just as much, maybe more so. And… And I don't know what to feel anymore."

He was silent for a bit and to his credit, Joe didn't say anything. The cup in his hands, though, was shaking, Hardy saw. Tom dug in his pocket, pulled out a hanky and blew his nose.

His voice was deeper and slightly scratchy. "Thing is, I didn't believe them all. Not… not that they'd lied, you know? But… maybe there'd been a mistake. Maybe you… you were just saying you did it to protect someone? Don't know who that could be, but … well." He shrugged. "All the way here, I thought that there has to be a reason you said you did it and then said you didn't, that you really didn't… Now, though, sitting here… I'm not so sure if I really wanna know. Maybe not knowing is better. Maybe I was wrong to come here." He wiped his nose in his sleeve. "I don't want to feel bad about missing you."

And Joe Miller put his arms around his son and pulled him towards him, held him close and let the boy cling to him, let him sob into his jumper. His face was pale and worn, and then his head turned and he looked right at Hardy, showing his tear-stained cheeks and the deep, gut-wrenching sorrow in them.

At that point, Hardy knew things would be alright. Not for Tom, probably. Not for Miller. Not for Joe Miller and certainly not for the Latimers, ever. But this moment was the chance Joe couldn't have hoped for, his one last chance, and Hardy knew he would take it.

He didn't have to hear what Joe whispered into Tom's hair, or be able to read lips; the sudden tension in Tom's shoulders was enough for him to know what Joe'd said. Tom's grip loosened and eventually let go completely. It took a moment for his father to release him and his face was devastated.

"I…" Tom looked away.

"I love you. So much. Please believe me that I love you. Please. Please. Just… just that."

"Okay." Tom's voice was calm and slightly vacant. He moved away a little bit, creating distance that Hardy knew pained Joe to no end.

Good.

"Okay. I… I'll leave now. Than… thank you for telling me. Uhm."

"Can… can I call you, maybe?" Joe asked, reaching for Tom but stopping before he made contact. It didn't seem like he thought he'd get a positive answer.

He didn't.

"No. No, I don't think so. I… I can't not love you, Dad." Tom's voice faltered at 'Dad'. "I can't. But right now… right now I really wish I could. Maybe… maybe. One day, maybe. Don't know. Not now." He took a quick look at Joe again then looked away. "Don't contact me. Bye."

And with that he stood and left, not turning back even once. As he reached the car, Hardy opened the passenger-side and let him settle in, never turning his gaze away from Joe. But he was just sitting on the beam, a sorry, pathetic man who might finally understand what his cowardice had cost him.

Maybe one day, he'd also understand what it had cost all the other people in his life. But that would take a while still, Hardy thought.

Without a word, he slipped into the car and drove off, staying silent during the whole ride. He wasn't even pretending he hadn't heard every word. The only thing he did was hand Tom more tissues, which he gladly used to wipe his face and blow his nose.


	10. Chapter 10

During the drive back to the Museum, Hardy didn't put on the radio and didn't say a word, knowing instinctively that Tom wouldn't, either. The kid was staring out the window, tears still running down his cheeks and he occasionally wiped the snot from his nose with this jacket's sleeve.

It was not even eleven; the talk hadn't taken more than half an hour. Maybe, if she had started at six as she'd planned, Miller would already be in Liverpool. She had Daisy's number, so they both might be inside the Museum. As he parked, Hardy took a look around but didn't recognize Miller's car among all the others. Since it wasn't orange, that didn't mean she wasn't here, though.

"You want to go inside? Or wait in the car?"

Tom shrugged. He looked tired, emotionally drained. Hardy left him in the car and went to find his daughter and Miller, texting quickly as he walked. Before he'd even reached the entrance, Daisy had replied. _'shes here, driving me bonkers. she always that chatty?'_

It made him smile. Before he could reply and tell Daisy to send Miller out, the door opened and his orange-clad …well, friend, really, hurried out. "Where is he, is he alright? Tell me he's okay! Did anything happen, did that bastard touch him, did he do anything to him-"

"Ho, Miller, calm down." Before she could gnarl him to death for telling her to calm down, he hurried on to cover up his blunder. "He's in the car, nothing happened to him. Joe didn't touch him." Hardy didn't think telling her about the hug would make things better, so he lied. "They talked, that's all."

"Well, if that's all then why do you look like walking dread!" But she forced herself down and took a deep breath.

If she thought he looked like shite, she should better stay away from a mirror. There were dark bags underneath her eyes betraying her worry and lack of sleep. Her hair was a mess, likely hadn't seen a comb today, or yesterday or longer – he wouldn't judge, and he noticed she wore her jumper inside-out. Wouldn't tell her that, though. He valued his life too much for that.

"I would have preferred a better weekend, that's all. He's all yours, you can get him back home and I'll try to spend some time with my own child for a bit, if you don't mind."

Miller bit her lip and looked towards the car-park, as if staring hard enough would bring Tom right to her without delay. Hardy was not sure what was keeping her here still, but she seemed reluctant to go.

He groaned. "He won't stay with Joe and I doubt he'll do so in the near future. Now go away. I still have half a day left before I need to get back, and I intend to do something nice now." Following his own advice, he turned and pulled open the door to the Museum. As he stepped inside, he turned back once more. "And Miller?" She looked at him. "You have a really good boy."

With that, he left her and went to find his daughter, who was probably in the natural history section if she hadn't changed too much during the few years he had been out of her daily life. Maybe looking at dinosaurs would be just the thing for him. Life tended to look less insurmountable in front of a Tyrannosaurus.

O

Daisy had indeed been in the natural history section. "Did you know into what dinosaurs evolved? They didn't all die out."

"I know." He did. If you had a kid like Daisy who was mad about animals in all sizes, shapes and leg-numbers, it was hard not to. "There's snakes and lizards and … crocodiles and those fish-things with legs, right?" Hadn't he seen it on one of those documentaries once?

"Yeah, but those are really more or less living fossils. That means they used to live like they are now back in the Jurassic and Cretaceous and such. But birds! Birds are the real winner of evolution! Well… them and mammals, I guess. And insects. But they kinda just got smaller. Birds though used to be those _huge_ sauropods and now they fly around here and everyone kinda loves them. They're awesome! The chicken we eat was once something like this," Daisy pointed at the dinosaur's skeleton next to them, a long-necked, smallish… thing. "That's so cool. I always love seeing stuff like that. All the way nature re-invents itself by wiping out things it doesn't find fit for survival. Do you think one day, humans are going to be wiped out?"

"The way things are going right now, it will be sooner rather than later," Hardy grouched and earned a punch to the shoulder.

"Way to be gloomy, Dad. But really… do you think that?"

He looked down at her pensive face and couldn't help but smile. "If so, I just hope we'll get a bit more time. I quite like it here, and I'd like to see you grow up and be fantastic." She blushed. Oh, but she would be. So fantastic, wherever she would go.

His phone beeped and he groaned. One day. One bloody day without that thing chirping at him! Was that too much to ask?

"Do you have to answer it?"

He gritted his teeth. "At least need to see who it is." It was a text from his sister, and he gladly put the damned thing away. "Not important. You want some ice-cream?"

"Dad. It's November!"

"What? They don't have ice-cream in November? What stupid rule is that?" Daisy giggled but ultimately decided to forgo ice-cream in favour of fish and chips down by the harbour. Luckily, it was the touristic harbour, far away from the gritty reality of the port. They wandered about with their greasy food – she'd badgered him into getting his own portion, despite knowing he wouldn't eat it even half – and fought off the hungry gulls that were following them around.

One of the flying pests swooped down and stole his fish and Daisy laughed until her own chips spilled out on the ground, at which point the rest of the birds came screaming and cawing and the owner of the chippy cursed them for feeding the bloody things.

It was a perfect day, and Hardy didn't want it to end.


	11. Chapter 11

Monday morning started off well. After the long drive back to Broadchurch and the long afternoon before in Liverpool, Hardy had dropped onto his bed at home to stretch out his cramped spine at about nine in the evening and woke sometime around one, still clothed, cotton-mouthed and cold. Without doing more than brushing his teeth and changing into sleep-wear, he'd gone back to bed – underneath the blanket this time – and woken in the morning when Daisy had banged on his door and threatened to take the car on her own if he didn't wake up. With ten solid, nightmare-less hours of sleep under his belt, he felt refreshed and somehow excited to be back at work. It had been a long time since he'd felt that way, and it was a good but odd feeling.

By the time he arrived on his floor, though, most of that mood had changed into his usual gloomy frown. After bumping into Lewis Parker and his intense anger-issues along with his wife Sally, who'd once more come to bail him out despite the bruise on her jaw, it had pretty much gone downhill. His growl of 'Stop hitting your wife, Lewis!' had been met with a glare and a 'None of your bloody business, Hardy' from Sally. He was pretty sure she'd have kicked him if there hadn't been witnesses nearby.

He sighed. At least in Broadchurch they only had about three to four regular cases of domestic violence, not half the city as it had been in Glasgow or Sandbrook. It was a small solace, though.

With the tea in the pot being left over from last night - possibly even Friday – and not feeling desperate enough to re-heat it or make a new pot, he'd grabbed a juice from the fridge and had barely sagged into his chair to make a phone-call when Miller trudged into his office and placed herself in the chair in front of him.

She looked a lot better than the last time he'd seen her, but her face wasn't happy and he hung his head with a sigh. "What is it?" he asked the desk, hoping she'd have something besides family-trouble that was bothering her. Something he could actually do anything about.

"Sir, what happened in Liverpool?"

He looked up, wearing a frown. "What? When?"

"With … with Joe and Tom. Something must have happened because he's … I think he's even worse than before he'd disappeared. Didn't react at all to being grounded and kitchen-duty. Just nodded. He won't talk to me or Dad, didn't eat last night and no breakfast and is just…" _Exhausted_, Hardy thought. "So, something must have happened. What is it?"

If something similar would have happened with Daisy, he would have wanted to know, too. Still, would it be a breach of trust to relay Tom's words to his mother? It wasn't like he'd deliberately listened in and Tom hadn't explicitly asked for secrecy. Did his loyalty to Miller surpass the feeling of dept he carried for Tom?

Hardy blew out a breath. No, those words were Tom's and only his. But he could give Miller the important thing, the part that was likely behind Tom's state. "Joe told him he killed Danny."

Shocked, Miller dropped her purse and cursed when everything spilled out. "What? What! He … are you sure?" Hardy nodded. She bent down to pick up her knick-knacks, buying time to think about the implications. "What did he say? What were his words! Hardy!"

"I don't know," he glared. Miller was wide-eyed and angry and …elated? Yes, she looked elated. A little scared maybe as well, but definitely elated. "I didn't hear the words."

"So how do you know, then? Maybe he said something else! Maybe he… he threatened him or something…"

"Miller."

She bit her trembling lip and sniffed and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "He didn't threaten him," he said, voice softer and certain. "He told him."

"How do you know? How can you be so certain? Did Tom tell you?"

He shook his head. "From Tom's reaction."

Miller frowned, clutching her purse with whitened knuckles. "How did he react?"

"He left him."

Miller looked at him as if she were waiting for more. "What? He left him… where?"

Exasperated, he threw up his hands. "At the bottom of the ocean, Miller, what do you think. He got up and left. That's all."

She was silent then and after a moment, Hardy started to go back to check his e-mails. When, after another five minutes, Miller still hadn't gone to her own desk, he looked up again. "What?"

"Really, that's all? He … left?"

"Of course that's all! What, you thought he'd lay into his father and give him a proper walloping, maybe break a few more ribs, that's what you want?"

"No! Of course not, and don't even suggest that's what I want, you bloody grumpy git!" she yelled. Then she reigned her temper in and took a deep breath. "Just seems so… anti-climatic." _Not enough_ Hardy thought he read on her face. "It's a bit meh, isn't it?"

"You think so?" He leaned back and rocked with the backrest of his chair. "Your son somehow made the effort to find his father, ran away from home to see him and was really clever about it, too. He planned it all out and saved money to get there and it was only luck and chance Daisy spotted him on that rest-area. He went to all this trouble, risking you never forgiving him for it, suffered through a mind-numbingly boring birthday with his mother's boss and gnawed his nails off all day, and when he was there and finally able to talk to his father, after maybe five minutes he left him sitting there alone and never looked back."

_I can't not love you, Dad. But I really wish I could._

"No," Hardy shook his head, thinking about how deep those words would cut him if Daisy felt forced to say them. "No, I think Joe would have rather taken another beating."

Miller looked at her hands and chewed on her lip. There might be a hint of vicious satisfaction, but it was so slight that he didn't think she was even aware of it. Instead, she was thinking and he guessed she was imagining how she might feel to be so outwardly rejected by her child.

He wasn't feeling any sympathy for Joe. What was left of that had been destroyed by his cowardice in court, but that didn't mean he couldn't understand his feelings on a rational level. And Miller, Hardy was certain, would be able to do so even more. Had she not been rejected by Tom during the trial as well?

"Well." She said finally. "Well, if that's all… then it's all. So, I'll just… wait until Tom talks to me?"

Hardy nodded. "All you can do, really. Now get out. I've got to make a call, and if I'm right, we might actually catch our chicken-murderer." He was already dialling and before she could leave, the person on the other end picked up. "Hello? Mrs Brightham-Viscant? Here's Detective Inspector Alec Hardy from the Wessex Police. We met… yes. Yes, Abby's brother." He glared at the phone and made shooing motions to Miller, but she refused to leave and just watched him, amused. "Yes, wee Alec. Listen, I've got… what? No. No. No, this is…" By now, Miller was soundlessly laughing at him and it soured his mood to listen to that annoying woman prattle on in his ear. "Mrs Brightham-Viscant, stop talking! … Thank you. Now, this is about the talk we had on Saturday, about your husband's hobby. Not the flowers – the chickens!"

He smirked when all of a sudden, Miller's silent laughter was wiped away and she slipped into her seat to listen, primed like a predator smelling its prey.

O

Ten days later, when all was wrapped up and done, they were once more the talk of the town. Not in a necessarily bad way – not truly. But they were famous, had been in the papers again – thanks, Maggie! – and Miller had even been on the telly for a minute or two.

Tess, when she came by to pick up Daisy so their daughter could take the wheel back to Sandbrook for a weekend with her, was openly laughing at him and for the first time in ages, Hardy laughed with her without feeling hurt and resentful.

Daisy left with a long list of instructions how to take care of Ellie, and he scowled at her and playfully shoved her out of the door. He had taken time off for a week between Christmas and New Year and booked a four-day-trip to Disneyland in Paris, one of the bigger dreams Daisy'd had when she'd been growing up. He was hoping she still wanted to go, but just in case Mickey Mouse and Grouchy Dad were not enough, he'd invited Chloe Latimer along after awkwardly asking her parents. Now he only had to think of a way to survive that horror himself. Maybe they had a parent-daycare-centre or something.

He was hoping it would make a dent in the dept he owed his daughter for keeping him levelled in the good things of this world and making him happy.

"Now, what are we going to do today?" he asked Ellie, who was sitting on a chair at the table. He had been adamant that it wasn't the right place for her, but she'd refused anything else and Daisy had pleaded with her big, misty eyes and Hardy hadn't had a chance so the chair was now hers. Ellie didn't answer.

There was a knock on the door and Hardy grinned, knowing who it was going to be. "Miller," he said, trying to look surprised but failing at the sight of her grumpy expression and truly impressive glare.

"This is all your fault, Hardy! You put them on my trail, you bloody traitor! And here I thought you were finally starting to become a decent human being!"

He laughed out loud and she startled, blinking at him completely speechless as if she hadn't seen him laugh before.

Maybe she hadn't. It wasn't a habit he often got a chance for during work, and their social interaction, while getting more regular, was still more hit-and-miss than anything.

"Right. Laugh, you bloody wanker! But the next reporter coming to ask me about the bloody chicken-killer will be sent to your own doorstep! And there's a chicken on your chair, did you know that?"

She was inside now, staring with disbelief at the new, brightly-feathered addition to his household. He rolled his eyes. "Harrington insisted she belongs to me and Daisy refused to have her adopted by someone else who actually _wants_ her. So, apparently we now have a tame chicken." At her giggle, he gave an amused snort. "Bloody bird is even potty-trained. She pecks on the door when she wants to be let out."

Ellie – and there was no way he was changing the name; he'd thought it was perfect once he'd heard it from Harrington – had been one of only two survivors of what the press called the 'Dorset Chicken Massacre'. Desmond Kaine, Britain's first serial chicken-killer, had been caught literally red-handed when he was on his way to display another brutally murdered Sussex hen. He'd moved through England and wherever he stayed, Kaine had killed and tortured chicken, taking them only from hobby-breeders and never from the big chicken-farms. He'd said in his confession that it was easier because nobody secures their henhouse the way a chicken-meat-farm would, but Hardy thought it was more because Kaine's twisted mind needed the knowledge that he was taking someone's pets and causing the owners extra-agony.

Every stop he'd made in his journey, he'd taken one more bird than the previous stay. At first it had only been one hen from his neighbour in Sheffield, and when he'd reached Birkenhead and the Brightham-Viscants, he'd taken seven. After Hardy had talked to Eloise's husband, it hadn't been difficult to find the trail of dead poultry and follow it to Dorset, where only one person had taken recent residence who'd also been in all the other places the police had records of killed chicken.

Every time Desmond had acted on his urges, he'd gotten more and more inventive and cruel about killing the poor things. The first bird had just been a quick snap of the neck, but the twisted fucker hadn't been satisfied. The hut in which Dr Ingram had found Oscar the cock and the speckled Ellie, the last survivors, had looked so horrific that two of his DCs had run out and puked out their breakfast. Even Hardy had had to step out and take a deep breath of air.

Two days after delivering the chicken back to their owners, Clive Harrington had come to his house and insisted the two were too traumatized to live back with his remaining flock, saying they deserved to get a new start. And though Hardy had outright refused the cock – bloody hell, he wasn't having one of those loud buggers at his house! – with Ellie looking so pathetic and alone in her little carrier, Daisy had been adamant and he'd been left without a choice. Oscar got adopted by Dr Ingram.

"Daisy's building her a pen, though," he grumbled, offering Miller a cuppa with a head-tilt. She shook her head, probably still minty about him shoving the 'Farmer's Times' in her way, telling them she'd be perfectly happy to do an interview. "She wants even more of them now, says they're not meant to be lonely. But – and I'm quoting here, so don't even start – she insists that Ellie has to choose her own friends, or she'd be bullied and even more traumatized. So for now, she's the only one."

Until next week, when they would go to the farmer's market a few towns over with the silly thing in her carrier, introduce her to other chickens and buy all those Ellie would like. Hardy wasn't quite sure if that was going to be horrific or hilarious. Maybe they could take the Millers? With any luck, Fred would insist on having a few chickens in their garden as well.

Miller was laughing so hard now, tears were streaming down her face. "A chicken! I could have imagined you with a dog as a pet, sure. Some sad rescue from a shelter, mangy and a bit wobbly. But a chicken is even better," she giggled, and he crossed his arms and glared at her to no avail.

"Was there something you wanted, Miller?"

"In fact – yes." She wiped her eyes and composed herself, but a cluck from Ellie had her snorting once more. "You're invited for dinner tomorrow," she finally managed, and Hardy raised his eyebrow in surprise. That had come completely out of the blue. "Tom insists to cook for you, and so you will bloody well come and bloody well behave like a human being, and bloody well like what he cooks!"

He hadn't even intended to refuse, so her swearing was completely unfounded. He glared at her. "Fine."

"Good." Miller turned towards the door and gave a quick grin over her shoulder before opening it. "I'll let him know not to make chicken." With another cackle, she was outside and made her way back to her house, the wind sweeping through her curls and making them look even unrulier than usual.

He watched, waiting while he stood in the open door to let the bird out as Ellie liked to roam about the area in the morning to look for seeds and insects and whatever it was that chickens ate. Miller was not far away at all when she suddenly stopped, turned and – probably, hard to see from the distance – glared at him.

"Wait, did you say that bloody bird is called _Ellie_?"

His cackle was probably more irritating than the name of the chicken, and as he watched Miller trudge away muttering insults, he felt a distantly familiar sensation in his limbs and chest.

If pressed, he might have called it 'being happy'.

~~~End~~~

* * *

_A/N:_

__Hello all of you! This is it, my first and so-far only Broadchurch-fic. I think I'll do one more (it's already at 15.000 words, so...) because I like it and when I first watched the series, these two topics (Joe & Tom and the new one that I won't tell you about yet) were in my head for a long time._  
Thank all of you who have already commented and favorited, and those who still will in the future. As any writer will know - that's what keeps us going!  
_


End file.
